


For the Taking

by olippe



Series: We're Going [4]
Category: Simon & Garfunkel
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst and Romance, Childhood Friends, Come on, Denial of Feelings, Drama, Drama & Romance, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Musicians, Romance, Romantic Friendship, Soulmates, everyone is sad, everyone knows it already, get them together please, i didn't say i'll stop, maybe i will never stop, talk me out of this, what are you doing, you're supposed to be together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-04-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:46:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 32,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23067958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/olippe/pseuds/olippe
Summary: The widening gap and the bridges they're still building.
Relationships: Art Garfunkel/Paul Simon
Series: We're Going [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629406
Comments: 44
Kudos: 22





	1. What Makes the Sun Goes 'Round

**Author's Note:**

> apparently, i just can't stop.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1972, words were traded and friendship was resumed.

They talk again.

After one benefit concert, Art invited Paul to have a drink. In public space, so they didn’t go nuts with each other. Paul had been civil. He talked about Peggy’s pregnancy—she craved for anchovies and artichokes, and Paul’s mother was very accommodating for the latter case—and Art had asked whether he’d have a name for the baby yet. Paul jokingly said Ira, and Art threatened to dump the rest of his glass on Paul’s head. Art told him of his wedding plan with Linda. He told Paul the date. He invited Paul. Probably he wanted to see if that hurt Paul like it did him, but Paul simply nodded and said that he’d be there if Art would be willing to provide nothing with anchovies and artichokes. Art felt that it’s not fair that he wanted to hurt Paul with the wedding invitation, so he smiled and said that it would be arranged.

They hadn’t talked for a very long time then. Since they parted, they’d only met with each other during their brief tour, then that’s it. Just like Paul said. Art did his movie, went home to Linda. Paul wrote songs and built a family with Peggy. The last time they talked, Paul was the one who picked up the phone. He called up Art’s old flat but found that he’d moved. Of course, his back-up plan was to call the old reliable Mrs. Garfunkel, who told him of Art’s new number. But instead of calling, he drove to Connecticut to see Art was _actually_ teaching people math. Paul waited for the class to be over with the biggest grin and they had a drink together. The talk mostly covered “what the hell are you doing with geometry” and “how did you even still remember anything algebraic” and quiet Paul murmuring “your voice isn’t supposed to be used like that”. Art, however, made a faux pas.

The truth was, Art still held grudge. Not against Paul, really, but Peggy. Wasn’t she the one who urged Paul to make a call to finalise their separation? Sure, they both agreed that they’re putting a stop on the duo, but Peggy made it so final. If she wasn’t there…

Well, if she wasn’t there, Paul would definitely had married someone else and that someone else would’ve done pretty much the same thing. Never mind, then. These thoughts had no end. But Art had said what he’d been stewing over for the past year, and it wasn’t very pretty to hear. Paul accused him of being unfair and stupid and unrealistic, Art replied by claiming selfishness and cowardice on Paul’s part. And that’s pretty much it for the whole year.

Art realised that Paul was right, though. Early in the following year, he realised how he’d put way too much effort to distance himself from Paul and their history, that he took up this job. Sure, his parents were behind this ( _finally_ , a _normal_ job), but this wasn’t what he’s made for. No, Paul was right. This wasn’t why he was given this voice.

So he returned to singing and that’s how he wound up in the benefit concert with Paul. The same old Paul. Funny, short, with more hair than he’d ever had in his entire life, getting all nervous while being very excited to see the prospect of having his first child. Well, Art can’t give him that, can he? No, they’re not seahorses.

Art was civil this time. He smiled politely at the topic of Peggy and the baby, supplied information about his own love life and how it finally found its way to his upcoming nuptials, talked about the other Garfunkels and listened to the latest news on the other Simons. He complimented Paul’s newest album and their selected Greatest Hits. He didn’t ask if any of the songs Paul wrote recently was at all about him…

“Okay, why Julio?”

Paul choked on his beer and laughed for good two minutes without interruption.

When Paul brought Artie home to see Peggy after a long while, they seemed to see the possibility of being friends again. Real friends, this time. No agenda to get anyone’s voice, no agenda to get into anyone’s pants, none of that. They can work it out from afar. This distance and each other’s attempts at building family might make friendship actually possible.

In September, a little less than a month before Art’s wedding, Paul’s son was born. Art was ready with a little shake and a little, “Ah, a Virgo baby…” and so he flew back to New York to say it. Art had prepared a box of baby boy stuff, along with new-mother kit that included some of the best scented candles Linda could find. Peggy was dishevelled but glad to receive them. She brought the box to the nursery and both Paul and Art followed her slowly, softly conversing in formal tones. But then Peggy shrieked from the room and Paul had to leave Art alone in the corridor.

“I _told_ you, this kind of thing is _not_ fit for a newborn!” This was Peggy.

“I’m sorry, alright! Hey, don’t…”

“He could choke on it! He could die, Paul!” The screaming went on. Art decided not to go in. He looked at the small item that Peggy just threw out of the nursery. It looked like a toy, a small one. Peggy was right, then—Paul _shouldn’t_ have left this with the baby. Art crouched on the floor and picked it up. It was the size of his thumb—probably too big to fit in a baby’s mouth?—and shaped recklessly in common manner of cheap toys. The toy’s right hand was broken from the collision impact.

It looked familiar.

Paul rushed to the door and his face paled when he saw the toy was in Art’s hand. Art slowly stood up, gripped the toy in his fist and handed it back to Paul. He’d found the small hand and returned it, too.

“Paul,” he said, at the unmoving Paul in the doorway, “I know it’s a bit of last minute, but will you be my best man?”

Paul tilted his head, confused and surprised. “What about your brothers?”

Art shrugged. “I’m asking him.”

Slowly, frown melted away from Paul’s head and a wide smile bloomed in its wake. He turned his head to Peggy, grinning like a child. “Isn’t he adorable? He’s the most adorable thing in the world, am I right?”

Peggy, obviously had forgotten her recent breakdown, laughed. “Aw, don’t say that in front of your baby boy _and_ the lady who’d just given birth to the elephant.”

Paul turned to Artie again and patted him warmly. “Of course, I will. I love you, man.”

They hugged briefly. Art smiled a little. That was the first I-love-you he’d gotten from Paul since that last time in the dusty renovated room in their studio. When they parted, Paul looked down to his sweater, clearly thinking of the same thing. He cleared his throat and announced that he’s going to fetch everyone some drink. Art moved in carefully to greet the baby and Peggy when Paul cleared off the nursery.

From afar, Art could see Paul pushing into his pocket, the king cake trinket from the Mardi Gras.


	2. What Creates Perpetuity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the edge of the year that marks endings and beginnings.

_Do you want to make songs again?_

It came out so easily. Paul wonders if he regrets saying it. But Artie seemed so excited about it, it’s difficult to feel remorseful about that one mistake. It’s a slippery slope, reconnecting with Artie. Familiarity resumes with too much ease and soon, feelings come resurfacing.

But maybe they can control it, this time. It’s not like they’re a couple of kids that they were a few years ago. God, it was only a few years ago—what, one? Two? How does it feel like Art’s gone missing for centuries? Maybe it’s because what came after the breakup whipped them like whirlwind—the end of their touring together, the last of their albums, the Grammy’s, the pregnancy, the Linda…

Or maybe because that’s the way the world feels when Art’s not around. Ending and unending at the same time.

“Are you listening to Art’s song?” Peggy’s face pops from the open door. Paul, held hostage by the weight of his son sleeping on his lap, sighs and responds with a reluctant nod. He doesn’t want _anyone_ to know that. Least of all Peggy. Or actually, Art. It feels like a grave invasion of privacy when people prod on his thinking-about-Art time. With Peggy, the discomfort is added with the fact that she’s his wife. With Art, well, it’s because he’s Art. Anyway, in other time, Paul would’ve jumped out of his seat, made odd excuses and run off somewhere. With sleeping toddler, that seems implausible.

Peggy, noticing his squirming, softens her face. “I’m not gonna say anything about it, I’m just asking.”

Peggy's always like that. Like Art—or nearly like Art—she can figure out what Paul's thinking simply by looking at his face. But not from familiarity; from instinct, observation; Peggy's analytical and smart. And, like Art, she always lets Paul have his way. Could it be that Paul married Peggy because she reminds him of Art? Because she treats him like Art does? Paul lets out a weak laughter and shrugs. “I always knew you’d catch me, one of these days. Hey, I appreciate that. Anyway, let’s move him to the bed because my legs are dead.”

Peggy grins and scoops her son in her arms, relieving Paul, who grunts in relief. “How long have you two been there?”

“Well, I’ve heard Artie singing in French two times, so more than an hour?” Paul pokes on his thigh, wincing. “Oh, look, there’s me again. Yep, more than an hour. Means, we have less than an hour until he wakes up.”

Peggy shakes her head. “Okay, Paul, you go and deal with your unresolved feelings for your best friend, _I’ll_ handle the little devil.”

Paul whines, “Not fair. The devil _will_ be able to play baseball, the other one no longer has hopes. Have you _seen_ him throw? Heart-breaking!”

“Go,” Peggy laughs. And this time, Paul jumps to his feet and leaves for the other room. He finds himself sighing with greater relief than when his son was lifted off his lap. It’s been getting more and more difficult to be with Peggy. Why? Peggy doesn’t know. Paul doesn’t want to know. It’s easier if he doesn’t know. But he does, doesn’t he? He always does. The reason why his marriage is falling apart is the same one that got it to happen in the first place. The reason remains. And worse, it’s coming back. Fast.

Paul notices that Peggy in the other room had turned off the music. He sits on the floor, bending his knees, not sure whether he likes that. Art doesn’t really sound like he’s supposed to—or is it just Paul’s arrogance? Is he _that_ cocky to believe that he’s the only person in the world who can “tune” Art right? Art’s not a guitar.

Still, he gets on his feet and walks to his desk. A ripped envelope with scribbled numbers is sticking out of the bottom of the phone—Art’s phone number that Paul fished out of his mother several years ago. He’d had it memorised by now, even though he never calls Art anymore. Not unless it’s for a gig, or for other important things, or if Peggy nagged him to “deal with your unresolved feelings with your best friends” in any varying way she can come up with. What unresolved feelings? It’s completely resolved. It’s very clear what he feels—what _they_ feel. They don’t have to talk about it. So what’s there to deal with?

“Hello?”

Paul jumps, slightly, in surprise. Art’s voice is confused. That’s when Paul remembers that he’s supposed to speak to the phone.

“Artie, do you think we’re still best friends?”

Silence. Then a small laughter. “Paul. Of course.”

“Is that the answer for my question or…?”

“What? Oh, no. But, yeah, sure.” Art pauses briefly. “That was actually more like ‘of course it’s Paul, who else calls me Artie and who else forgets that he’s making a phone call and opens a phone conversation with weird question instead of hello’. But, yeah, sure, we’re friends. What’s up?”

Paul opens his mouth then closes it again. He looks at the round silver dials, quietly showing his fingerprints smudges. He thinks about the many times he thought about dialling that very specific set of numbers and the many times he thought of driving there instead, or running there, or cycling there, whichever way to get him to where the line would end. But no, he has better self-control now. He has a son. A wife, a son, a life.

He blinks. “Wait, did you mean… Artie, no. Yeah, we’re still friends but are we still _best_ friends, though?”

“Paul, what did you smoke?”

Paul laughs. He shakes his head downwards until his forehead meets the coldness of his table. What had he written there, these last few years? He wants to write them for Art. Why did he let them go? Because he’d written too much songs for Art; it’s time he sings them.

“Paul?”

Paul lifts his head. “Hi Artie.” Smile returns to his face. Somehow, the glaring sun through the window seems to almost create an image that’s Art-like. If he’s high, he would definitely see dandelions rapidly budding out of the pool of light and he’d blow them one by one until the seeds are all gone, swept by the wind, and he’d be there, sitting on his chair and weeping for the vanishing Art. “You know I’d given up smoking.”

“That’s for real? Can I get your secret stash?”

“My secret— Who are you, Eddie?” Paul grins at the sound of Art’s giggling. He taps his fingers where the surface is clear, waiting for the effect the sound leaves to fade. “So,” he starts slowly, “you remember when I said we should make songs together again?”

“Yeah…?”

Paul shrugs before realising that Art can’t see that. “I think we should meet and talk about it.”

Art laughs. “Since when did you ask for my counsel in writing songs?”

Paul doesn’t reply. He doesn’t think of any word to reply that. He just rests his head on his palm, listening. Art doesn’t demand any reply on the other end. Perhaps he, too, is wrapping himself in the moment, savouring the rare sound of a long-lost friendly voice.

“I’ll come,” comes the reply. Paul hides his face in the fold of his arms. “I’ll come and see you.”

He can’t recall who concluded the conversation in the end. What he can remember is that his heart feels that familiar swelling, that familiar ache, that had been long gone when he walked out of the life he could’ve lived with the boy from three blocks away.

***

Art’s marriage is failing; it’s the most apparent thing in the world. He never did love her. It’s not only that; he doesn’t even like her. Perhaps he, ultimately, followed through his original idea to marry out of spite. And all those illusions on how adorable Linda is, that’s all they are: illusions.

And here comes the reality in comfy shoes, faded jeans, sweater-on-shirt and sensible suit, grey woollen coat, warm mufflers, burgundy gloves and fancy hat and guitar case. Art can’t help but smiling, then lets himself failing at his effort to suppress a laughter. Paul grins widely at that, although unsure. “What? What’s so funny?”

Art shakes his head quickly, pursing his lips but laughter still comes steaming out of his nostrils. “Hmmm, no. Just, you look a lot like a literature professor with mortgage and crappy life.”

Paul laughs, nodding in understanding. “Okay, beard, that’s where you’re going, eh? You try having kids, see how often you can shave.”

“So… what, in the end you just give up and let it all out?”

Paul waves his head in weird bowing gesture. “Precisely,” he says, then clicks his tongue and makes eyes to get Art inside the little rented cabin.

They quickly find refuge from the early winter breeze. Paul starts the fire and drops his clothes on the couch once it goes ablaze. Art, sighing, collects the mess and hangs them accordingly. Paul’s gaze drifts towards Art’s movements and he grins. “Sorry.”

Art shrugs. “Had Peggy ever tried to stifle you with pillow for that?”

“Peggy. Ha. No, not for that reason, no.” Paul drops himself on the couch and sighs loudly. Art finds his beer rations and hands one to Paul. Paul, accepting with lifted brow, smirks, “You’re not gonna sit?”

Art scoffs and smiles shyly. “Frankly, I’m trying to determine where to sit.”

Paul straightens his back and Art coughs, shifting uncomfortably. “Paul, you know we haven’t… you know. I’m not sure where to start. Where do we pick up from? And I have…”

Art doesn’t know. He never knows how Paul always— _always—_ can reach up and kiss him without anyone noticing he moved before that happens. One second, he’s on the couch nursing his beer, the next few sentences he’s all pressed against Art.

This kiss is confusing. Art isn't really sure whether he wants it, but he doesn't want to not have it, too. He wonders if that's what Paul felt, years ago, in the bathroom, when Art first kissed him. It’s icy at first, then slowly, it melts—is it like the cold distance between them? Too soon, Paul warms him up thoroughly. Art lets go of his fists and pulls Paul into a hug, closer, until they both jump at the sound of crashing bottle.

Art looks behind Paul’s shoulder, bewildered, then calms down. Dark brown glass shards are glistening on the pool of golden liquid on the floor, the wood beneath their feet drinking what was supposed to belong to Art. The original owner stares and says, “Sorry.”

Paul, noticing the mess, giggled and pats Art on the arm. “Alright, you sit by the fire and I’ll go sop it up. Take it easy, Artie. Hey, you have more beer. I have everything we need to make Sazerac.”

Art frowns. “What’s a Sazerac?”

Paul’s gone up screaming something from the further corridor, completely muffled by what Art believes is his beard. He returns with a towel to drop on the spilled beer and a broom with dustpan. Art repeats the question and Paul answers whilst cleaning up, swiftly sweeping the debris of beer bottle. They make clinky noises, the shards. Paul moves so quickly, dumping both the trash and the cleaning tools to the bin under the kitchen sink. Art’s not convinced with Sazerac, but he grins. “Oh, so this is what it’s like to live with you. Broken things and half-assed clean-up session.”

Paul laughs. “Half-assed? That, sir, is spotless.”

Art shakes his head. “You know what? I’ll take the clean-up duty. You just… I don’t know, sing to the plants.”

“Ha! They’ll grow bitter or salty. And what are we growing? Parsley, sage, rosemary and thyme? Sorry, that’s one obvious joke.”

Art’s grin gives up into a fond smile. Paul smiles back, rediscovering the nervous ball of fuzzy feelings that’s Art and his fuzzy hair. He moves closer, every step feels like a test and he examines each factor with care. Does he flinch? Does he look nervous? Always. But, is it in reluctant kind of way? How are his hands? Okay. They’re okay. Gingerly, Paul places his fingers on Art’s cheek, their skins reflecting the orange light from the fire on their side. Art returns the touch, softly, brushing Paul’s hand with his fingertips.

The crackling of firewood makes beautiful background music. Soon, they realise that the fire is not even needed—it’s cold outside, but not enough to enforce a fire. Still, the room is frozen, dangling motionless in time.

“Artie.”

Art smiles, acknowledging. “I like it when you call me that.”

Paul lifts his eyebrow. “I always call you that.”

“I know.” He nods. “But we haven’t talked much these last few years.”

“Not for me. I talk to you every day.”

Art snickers. “What, like in your head?”

Paul scoffs. “ _Not_ like ‘in my head’. I talk to you. Out loud. Like, if I see you, what I would say, and then what you would say, then I’ll say my responds out loud. Just, you know, without the real you.” Paul folds his arms and frowns at the laughing Art. “I _told_ you I always say things as it is.”

Art contains the rest of his laughter and nods. “Yes. Yes, you did.” He holds out his hand, waiting for Paul to unfold his arms and put his fingers on it. Art squeezes gently, a signal for Paul to come closer. Instead, Paul drops to his knees and leans on Art’s thigh, looking so much like a cat. Art strokes his hair carefully, as if afraid to get bitten. Slowly, the strokes get bolder, more assured. He relaxes in his chair, drinking on the warmth and weight on his lap, a sign that Paul’s there, once more, in his life. “If so, then tell me, what is this, Paul?”

Paul takes Art’s hand from his head, then kisses it. He places the long-fingered palm back on the side of his head, leaning into the comfort its gentleness lends. “This is me, missing you.”

Art blinks slowly. Paul doesn’t change. In spite of the big things that’s supposed to shove him to better grip on adulthood, he’s still… Paul. Craving, taking, moving. Art is there; yearning, giving, enduring. Time had grown old until they give chance for a switch and Art realises that this is it: this is all the time Paul had taken to finally give and like the last time, he will give himself completely. Art is so ready to take—to savour the time when it’s his turn to receive—but he hesitates. What if this is yet another attempt to hurt another he wishes he could be with? What if he’s doing this to spite Linda? No, he’s not. This is Paul. He doesn’t need other reason to want to be with Paul.

“Paul?”

“Artie.”

“Okay, first of all, don’t tease me with that nickname.” Paul grins, looking up. Art’s face melts into sadness in a flash. He cups Paul’s face, his heart heavy. “Second of all… I don’t know if you know about Laurie and I…”

Paul nods. “I know.”

“ _Laurie,_ not Linda.”

Paul laughs and nods again. “I _know,_ Art. I keep an eye on you, alright? And I, uh, I’m sorry about Linda. You’re… divorcing her?” Art nods. Paul pats Art’s legs and makes a tensed smile. “Okay, that’s out of the way. Now the question is, what are you gonna do about me?”

Art’s eyes widen and he quickly hunches over to meet Paul. “What am I gonna do about you? Paul, that’s not even a question!”

“And yet, here I am, asking it.”

Art opens his mouth to speak, but then hesitates. He withdraws, his fingers curl into fists. “Paul, I love her.”

Paul nods. “I understand that.” He sighs then, in turn, reaches out to take Art’s hands. He squeezes both warmly. No bitterness, no anger. “Artie…” Then he repeats the chant again—witchcraft, very Paul. “Artie, do you still love me?”

The weight that latches on his words is an evidence. Not of how difficult it is to say, but of how long it had been left untouched. It’s rusting like an old door, having nothing but its own body to bear its unbearable mass. Tired, abandoned, waiting.

“I love you, Paul.”

The door cracks open. Suddenly, Art feels lighter. It’s like he’s seeing morning coming out of his body. His face lights up in recognition. The words that were kept hidden, locked and buried like a secret and a crime, suddenly burst forth to reveal itself as a key, a lost word to open a lost world. This is the world Art’s been missing. This air. This earth. That world that’s condensed into one boy; this is it.

And before he realised, he’d pounced and sucked on Paul’s lip. Paul’s head bumped on the floor, but his complains are quickly swallowed into Art’s throat. Art’s hands are shaking and he grips on Paul’s wrists much too tight for comfort. Paul opens his eyes to see the carvings on Art’s forehead spelling desperation, then shuts it back and let it happen.

“You know, in Connecticut, it’s legal if we wanna have sex.”

Art distances himself, surprised at the sudden trivia. Paul licks his lips, nodding. “Yeah, since, like, 2-3 years ago.”

Art frowns. “What?”

“Did you do that? You were in Connecticut around that year.”

“ _What?_ ”

Paul grins. “Okay, I just need you to stop shutting me for a while. Hey, it’s not like I want that. I just thought we have to finish the other thing first. Look at me, growing, bitter like our imaginary plants. Artie, I loved Kathy.” He lifts his eyebrows, watching as the thought fills Art. Paul pushes himself up to kiss his hanging lips, then flops back on to the floor. “So I suppose the table has turned.”

Art moves back, hesitant. “So it seems,” he says, doubtfully. “But what does that mean?”

“It means…” Paul frowns, his eyes darting from side to side, locating the right sequence of words. “It means I know how it’s like to be in your shoes right now. I didn’t love Kathy any less than I loved you then. I don’t expect you to love Laurie less than you do me now. And if you want to cast me aside, I’m ready for it.”

“And if I don’t?”

Paul exhales slowly, thinking. “Then we’re back to the beginning. And for that, too, I’m ready.”

Back to the beginning. Where they had to sneak around to be together? Where every time they touch, it’s always at least 40% practical joke? The many nights they spent laughing at people they managed to fool? Art sits on his knees now, looking down towards Paul who’s splaying on the floor, powerless. He wants that. They both want that. Just that much, if they can’t have more, is enough.

Art thinks about the night where he received his first kiss from Paul. That night never ceased to haunt him; in good way, in bad way. This time, it floats down tenderly, like a feather, pure and innocent. Paul is Art’s tonight, too.

“What about Peggy?”

“Peggy.” Paul repeats. He closes his eyes and sighs heavily. When he opens them again, they’re glistening with sorrow. “When I married, I thought… I thought it would solve all my problems, you know? I thought I would be complete. Like people. Like how people are supposed to be. It’s not like that, is it? I was stupid, wasn’t I? Having family doesn’t solve my problem. Nothing will ever complete me if…” He looks at Art, his gaze becomes sadder as seconds tick away. Paul grips Art’s closest fingers, fighting back tears. He _can’t_ be crying _again._

Art has laced their fingers now. Paul studies the way they’re tangled in each other, concentrating on the shapes of Art’s finger bones, the silent movements and quiet pulses. He finds the time it takes for the next beat to softly drum and he’d secretly thank God for keeping the owner of those veins alive. “Artie, I love you.”

Art stirs, his movement faint like a whisper, but Paul can hear it. He repeats, “I love you,” then he pulls Art’s hand and cradles it like a baby. “I’ll do whatever you want me to. Just be happy. If you want me, I’ll be with you. If you don’t…”

“Paul.” Art shakes his head slowly. “I want you.”

There’s a finality in his voice. No loopholes, no retractions; solid, water-tight conclusion. More than that, there’s eternity in that promise. _I want you._ The unspoken _always_ fills in the silence, growing louder with every chance that it’s thrown out of their three-words sentences, and it blesses them and curses them with itself. 

And with that, the love gains its permanence. And with that, the desire finds its immortality.


	3. What Memory Sounds Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In 1975, they sang together again.

What does it feel like to be divorced? Surprisingly relieving. For Art, probably. Paul, it's coupled with a tinge of sadness, pain. He doesn’t like failing, and this one failure disappoints him greatly. This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. Sure, their parting wasn’t hostile and Peggy would still let him sit in kitchen table and talk to him, and he’d make her laugh and they’d play with their son together. But this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.

Peggy doesn’t think so. She’s not happy about the divorce, but she can’t say she hasn’t seen it coming. She said to Paul, once, over a chicken salad, “What I don’t understand, Paul, is, in fact, why you married me in the first place.”

And Paul thinks that through. No, it didn't feel like love. But it was comfort. Which is ironic, because he never looked for her to seek comfort. No, instead, he cried in the shower and talked to imaginary Artie. But it was close enough to love; it felt at least halfway there. There's a fondness, the drive to make it work, attempted tolerance. They both had fought for it for long. But should a loving affair be this exhausting? And as to why he got married, it was like he once told Art. He was in difficult place, stabbed with feelings of being incomplete, and he thought marriage would’ve solved all of his problem. Peggy seemed like someone steady enough to do that with. She joked, “I just thought you liked me because I’m pretty, and that’s all. Honey, that’s no reason to get married to someone.”

Paul had smiled at that. It’s painful but it’s nothing he can’t handle. Being with Peggy after the divorce is like having to face a teacher you once had a fight with. It’s all in the past, both of you know that it’s just youth and fatigue, no hard feelings, but there’s an apology in the air that’s not enough to be contained by words. Paul’s grateful for Peggy, at least. But they both know that their closeness is just formality; it’s been that way for a long time now. They’re just a dream once dreamt by Paul and they both know that they can’t live life from a slumber.

“Did you ever love me?”

Paul scratches his temple. “Maybe.”

For what they have, ‘maybe’ is mostly enough. Peggy doesn’t ask because Paul can’t give. Paul doesn’t try anymore.

Art’s divorce, on the contrary, was a fete. Cold anger and contained curses, series of blaming that was either screamed out or unsaid, rude signatures, a slap of pen on the official desk, wordless turn-of-the-heels farewells as they took off in opposite direction... Art’s face only relaxed once he’s out of the door with Laurie on the ready. When he recounted the day to Paul in their recording session, anger still brims, it seems, and he stares at the glass panel as if trying to have it shattered.

“My Little Town,” Art reads the writing on the paper. He raises his eyebrow at Paul and snickers softly. “Cute.”

Paul scoffs. “Shut up and sing.”

Art mutters something about not being able to do both activities at the same time, but he sits quietly and begins to learn the melody. They’d laid down some tunes together in the first session. Paul scrambled with the lyrics, then with the title, but the music was all there already. Art waited because Paul had said he’s writing it for Art, again. Like it was before, years ago, when they were together and every song had been written with Art’s voice on his mind. On the day of that first session, Paul had sat and stared at Art for an eerily long time and Art found his old tolerance towards Paul’s antics. So he just smiled, tilted his head slightly and let Paul take what he needed from the activity.

He called Art the next day with complete lyrics, and that's how they wind up together again today. Both of them had been beyond busy with their divorces, preparing for new albums, Art with Laurie, Paul with brand new single life and foreign territory that is divorced fatherhood. For Art, it feels like a comfort to find something old in the midst of his changing days. Paul probably has the same thought in mind.

Paul has dragged stools for both of them, for some purpose. They usually just stand there, before the microphones. Paul would wander when it’s not his time to sing and Art would feel like a mother with his restless son, shopping for grocery. But he takes what’s offered anyway. Paul sits in front of him, casually bumping their knees together. Art stretches his long legs and places them at one of the legs of Paul’s stools, playfully trying to knock it off, which was rewarded with a large smile and a “stop it or I’ll mutilate you”.

Paul plays the first part and soon, they’re singing together again, the harmony finds itself like two misfits in the middle of a classroom. It’s miraculous, how thoughts get transferred through words that don’t bear its meaning, but that’s how they work when they sing; the feelings, the understandings come naturally and it’s better than they can explain to each other through real conversation. Perhaps he’s expecting that from Peggy, too, thought Paul, and that’s how it became difficult. Not everyone can do it like Artie. No one is Artie.

Paul’s eyes flit from his guitar to the stretched limbs that belong to Art. He has habitually placed his gathered hands on his lap, like a child waiting for his mother with nothing to do. Occasionally, they would jump softly, like a toy truck on an artificial bump. There’s something so childlike about the adult Artie, just like there’s something so old about the child Artie. He always belongs to the wrong part of the world, it seems.

Artie. Artie, Artie, Artie. His name becomes a language of its own. Or a word with its wealth of meaning, maybe. Artie, verb, _to move as if you’re being shoved by harsh wind_. Artie, noun, _a scared deer_. Artie, adjective, _causing mild nervousness_. What is it synonymous with? _Squiggly, owl-headed, on edge._ Use it in a sentence. _Come on, man, don't make me Artie._

 _I love you._ Can he say that, in the room full of people like this? _I love you._ It’s a room filled with people, filled with sound. Why don’t they matter at all?

“Artie?”

Art stops his singing. The signature biting on the lower lip, the confused and surprised shot of the eyebrows. Paul plucks the strings, drifting into a vague song he doesn’t mean to repeat. Hesitantly, his lips let itself be tugged to form a smile. He looks down, suddenly shy. “I love you.”

Art blinks. His mouth hangs open, his eyes careful not to wander too far to make the announcement too suspicious. Paul snickers and decides to end the torture. “You know, this is where you say ‘I love you too, Paul, let’s do _everything_ your way and I’ll shower you with spring rolls for the rest of your life as my apology for being such an ass all these years’…”

Art laughs and shakes his head. “You know…”

“Not done. ‘And you are the best person in the world and I have secretly commissioned the erection of the Temple of Paul Simon in New Canaan. In fact, I have bought the whole Connecticut and meant to rename it as Paulsimonippi.’”

Art’s mouth makes wider gap and his face scrunches in confusion, surprise and a very mild disgust. “Paulsimonippi.”

“Because you suck at coming up with good ideas, it’s only natural that you come up with a crappy state name.”

“Not even going to let it sound at all like Connecticut, huh?”

“No, _you_ wouldn’t.”

“How ‘bout Paulsissippi?”

“See? You suck. You _really_ suck.”

Art looks around for help, catching eyes with random by-stander. “What’s going on? Is he drunk?”

Paul laughs. He draws the guitar closer to him and refocuses himself. “No, sorry. I just missed this. Maybe we can do it like we used to again. Like reunion or something, for real. I don’t know. It seems possible, don’t you think? I still really like your voice. Of course I do.”

Art smiles. The clasped hands on the lap continues. “I would like that very much.” Then, hesitantly, he adds, “And I love you too, Paul.”

“I wrote a new song. But for me. But do you wanna hear it?”

He nods. “Always.”

Paul looks down at his guitar again, plucking soft melodies, and Art listens carefully. Just like the old times, everything centres around Paul and Art’s more than happy to be the quiet observer until it’s his turn to sit under the spotlight… if Paul allows. They’re more than thrice the age when they met now, but the nature of their relationship hasn’t changed. But hasn't it? They love each other, they want to punch each other; the way they love has changed, the reason why they want to punch has changed; so, have they really changed? They have. But here they are. _More or less the same,_ eh? More or less, yeah, that sounds about right. Art is ever willing to sit there and contain his charm until it’s needed, and he’d spend his focus to admire Paul in the meantime.

And this time, he notices the oddly nervous darting of Paul’s eyeballs. So, again, he waits until he can’t contain his question anymore, and Paul finally says,

“Artie, do you wanna go to my house tomorrow?”


	4. What Friends are For

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The year was 1975 and Paul made a new friend.

“I’m sorry, Paul.”

What is he sorry for? For throwing a punch out of his mouth? What a wonderful way to compensate for having sticks for arms. Good word jab, by the way. Paul is dead now. Art is being charged for manslaughter, or such. What a sensational end for such a meek duo.

He's sorry, he said. No, he didn't want to go to Paul's house. He wanted to come home to his girlfriend instead. Sorry, it no longer makes sense for us to be together, and stuff and stuff. Motherfucker. Why is he sorry _now_? He should’ve been sorry years ago, when they were 15 and he and his stupid hair decided to jump the gun and kiss Paul for the first time. Sure, he _said_ he was sorry then, but _was he though?_ He seemed to be very not sorry when they fucked. Okay, _Paul_ made him do that, but he was very enthusiastic about it, wasn't he? So… it’s his fault. Definitely. Definitely Art’s. Damn Art. Who cares. Who cares now? Who cares if Art doesn’t want him anymore? Go ahead, Artie. Go ahead and be normal with Laurie, or whatever. That’s what you’ve always wanted all your life, isn’t it? A job, a house, a car, a wife. You’re getting there, go ahead, toddle along.

Paul's busy anyway. Scratch that whole thing about making a "real" reunion, he’s gonna write as many awesome songs as possible now. Love song, of when it ends; goodbye songs, to Artie. Take that song they made together and stuff it up wherever he wants, Paul doesn't care. That's all there's gonna be; they're not going to make another one. Not another attempt at being together, not another album and no, Paul wouldn't even make one song for Artie to sing anymore. Artie. Ugh. Oh, how Paul wants to throw a brick at his house today. Just drive past his house, throw a large one through his bedroom window… Maybe it’ll nestle in his hair. Maybe it’ll damage his brain. Maybe it’ll knock sense into him and he’ll come back to—

No. No, no, no. Paul’s not welcoming any other advance from the good old Mister Garfunkel. Nor will he make any more advance. That’s it. That’s the end of it. He ended it first, didn’t he? What was he doing anyway, trying to get them back together? That’s insane. That’s just insane. Paul's being stupid because Art's stupidness is contagious. Yes, yes, he's a virus. Better stab him, somehow.

The thing is, the marriages ended. His marriage ended, Art’s marriage ended… It seems to be apparent that the reason is each other. So why don’t they do this reasonable thing and just _get together_? Because that’s just the way Artie is, isn’t it? He doesn’t do reasonable things. He said he would. He said that’s what he does, but it never is. Stupid Art. Stupid Art with his master’s degree.

Whatever, go get a girl and live normally.

***

Over the summer, Paul, surprisingly, made a new friend. Lorne was new in town and he made a long, weird "joke" about dead shark upon their first meeting, and they both quickly hit it off after a few non-shark minutes. Paul had offered to show him around New York, being a local. Lorne was happy to receive the gesture—in fact, he bounced exactly 15 times, each with three let's-goes, then yanked Paul's hand, before apologising to the said hand and pledged never to harm the guitar-playing fingers ever again. Paul thought about kicking him, but it's their first meeting and people might think kicking as rude. He's an odd duck, Lorne; one that's amusing to watch and to hear. And really, Lorne was nothing like Artie. He’s fun and funny and… Okay, that bit was a _little_ Artie-like. But it was the best time of his life after a long time. And anyway, it's not any sort of "rebound friend" or something. Paul’s angry and disappointed and lost and confused after losing his wife, his son, Artie. Having a friend, one he’s not in love with, apparently helps.

That’s why he couldn’t say no when Lorne asked him to invite Artie along to sing in his show. No, he’s not gonna refuse _one_ favour for a newborn show; not to his _new_ best friend. (That’s right, Artie’s thrown off the throne now; take that Garfunkel.) And Artie... Artie's not being helpful, as usual. Why did he say yes? He's doing acting thingy somewhere far away, why couldn't he just stay there? He's toying with Paul, obviously. Wanna see whether he's pissed about Art's rejection, eh? No, Paul's not gonna give him the satisfaction. He sucked it up, performed as naturally as he could, and politely shoo-ed Artie away as soon as possible from the set. Good performance, good songs, good riddance.

“You know,” Lorne said to Paul on their way back in to the studio after Art’s well-tucked in the cab, “you two might really benefit from being straightforward. Just tell him that you love him and be together already.”

Paul frowns, folding his arms in front of his chest as a shield. “I _did! He_ did. But it’s a done deal. We’re not gonna get back together. I don’t write songs for harmony anymore.”

Lorne shakes his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

He waits until he finds the door to his dressing room, holds the door open to let Paul in, and Paul obligingly—with a set of suspicious eyes—slips in. Paul, who stashed his stuff on the couch, begins to pack while watching Lorne moving to the far end of the room, waiting for elaboration. Lorne leans on his vanity and watches Paul carefully. Paul sits down, nervously, then burrows his hands under his thighs, hiding the cold sweat that drenched them. He shouldn't have brought Artie to Lorne. That should never happen. Lorne's sharp. _Too_ sharp, in spite of that stupid face and that stupid head of his.

“I mean, you’re in love with him.”

Paul scoffs, probably way too quickly to be convincing. “I am _not_ in love with my best friend.”

Lorne lifts his eyebrow and smirks. “I thought _I’_ m your best friend.”

“Ha! For now, Michaels. But you’re on thin ice.” Paul narrows his eyes at Lorne, who returns the gaze with equal determination. What's his angle? No, he can't tell Lorne. It doesn't matter how much he likes Lorne, they'd only known each other for a few weeks. No, this is between him and Artie. It's always been. That's what makes it... insufferable. Anyway, it's settled: Lorne is not to know about this. Could the prolonged silence have given it away? Paul shudders at the thought. His chest feels a stabbing pain that he knows came from competing urgency to speak out and necessity to keep secrets in.

Lorne, probably getting the process in Paul's head, quickly snaps. “Paul, I’m not going to do anything about it. On the contrary, I’m offering a safe space.” He looks at Paul, persuading. “If you need to use one. And if it were true—and let's say I'm only saying this hypothetically—you definitely need one.”

Paul studies the face. His eyes haven’t blinked in a long time, he must’ve looked like gecko by now. The silence has obviously betrayed him. Definitely. Then Lorne would've known already. And he already _does_ anyway. So what’s there to tell? An oral confirmation? He’s just like everyone out there, then. Everyone who’s trying to get validation of their theories, legitimation for their prying hands, all that invasion of the privacy that had brought this silence in the first place. As if their personal life belongs to people who’d heard their voices now. Just because they’d shared their songs, doesn’t mean _everything_ they have belongs to the world too. Paul feels the silence swelling out of his throat, filling his mouth to the brim.

“Fine, if you don’t wanna talk to me. I’m just saying…”

“I love him.”

Paul purses his lips because if he’s not careful, he’s gonna throw up. Paul feels his fists begin to tremble under his thighs. He holds his gaze against Lorne’s, unflinching, challenging. His head is spinning and he could feel his eyes tearing up from the sickness. It’s one thing to say that to Art, but to say that behind _his back…_ Pronouncing feelings without the need to ensure the related party seems to have made those feelings… more real. As if it needed to be more real than this.

Lorne nods, perhaps in attempt to encourage or to comfort Paul. Encourage or comfort. Could that be what those nods are always about? Paul's encouraging Art. Art's comforting Paul. Is it what they all means? “Does he know that?”

“Of course he does. He always does.”

“So what’s the problem?”

Paul frowns. “I might get stoned and burned to death at stake in the open street?”

Lorne smirks and shakes his head. “No, no. That’s not what I meant. I mean, what’s the problem with you two? He doesn’t love you back?”

Paul shrugs. “He did. He does. Whatever. Listen, what do you want?”

“Nothing!” Lorne throws his hands in the air. “I swear.”

Paul narrows his eyes again. “I suppose you want to help me or whatever?”

Lorne shakes his head. “No, can’t say that." He paused, then frowns. "Actually, yeah, a bit. You two—You know what? You realised he slapped your butt on national TV just now? Can I just say that that doesn't help your discretion? Anyway, I'm not gonna do anything, and I can't say I'm able to help you in any way. But I promise it won’t go anywhere. My lips are sealed! You know what? Let’s take your mind off it. Let’s come up with new things to do. Hey, what do you think of tonight’s show? Apart from the butt-slapping, I think it's pretty alright, don't you think? Actually, I'm also alright with the butt-slapping. Actually, I think it's stellar. MORE BUTT SLAPPING! MORE BUTT SLAPPING!”

Paul keeps quiet for a while and Lorne waits, somehow nervously. And then it just came out. It just came out. Paul didn’t mean to say that. He didn’t want anyone to know. He didn’t want anyone to know that his best friend had broken his heart. How did it come out?

“He said he doesn’t want to do anything with me anymore.”

For a moment, Paul feels nothing. Not his breath, not his heart; it's like he's dead and he's fully aware of his lifelessness. Is that how it's like to die? The blankness came like a flash, blinding, and then there's just nothing? Who would read his eulogy? His mother would cry, his father would sit there in stony silence. Eddie would. Paul wishes he'd written a will to forbid Art from even coming. Is that petty? Yes it is. But who cares? He's getting the last turn to hurt Art. Oh, is that what he wants? He wants to hurt Art? Maybe. No!

Lorne opens his mouth and Paul snaps out of it. He jumps out of the sofa and shakes his head. “He didn’t say _that_ exactly. He just said we couldn’t do it anymore, or something along that line, I guess. I, uh, I can’t really remember. I think I blacked out. Or something. Anyway, he just…” Paul sighs weakly. “He just wants to focus on his girlfriend. Not like it's your problem, or anything. It's no one's problem.”

Lorne nods slowly, recollecting that he’d heard that Arthur Garfunkel is indeed in relationship with a lady. An actress. Laurie. That's it; Laurie Bird. He walks carefully towards Paul and places a hand on his shoulder, comforting. “Well, then. What you need is a drink. A lot of it. Why don’t you come to my apartment? I just bought some really good whisky.”

Bereft of fighting energy, Paul lets himself be whisked away to Lorne’s apartment. And with whisky after whisky, Paul spends the whole night recounting the history of him and Art, 1949-1975. The first time he saw Art on the stage, the first time he talked to the boy, the first time they sang together, the first time of everything. The first time they kissed. The last time. The night is filled with Art.

When Paul passed out on Lorne’s couch, the last thing he thought of was how he would’ve been able to come up with even more Art had he been alone, and how it would’ve been so much more miserable. Perhaps, really, having friends has its benefits.


	5. What Comes With the Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art returns home.

This is the best coffee he’d ever tasted. Art’s life has been blessed with this perfect coffee these last couple of years, and this particular one is the best. Laurie is particular about her coffee—strong, silky, with just right level of acidity—and the apartment they share together now holds the best coffee in America. Today, though, it tastes a million times better because Laurie wears the new coral and yellow sundress Artie bought for her last week. She looks like a freshly blooming marigold.

The sun is warm through the windows. Art had opened all the curtains to let it stream to the kitchen that morning. He likes it when Laurie walks to the room with all the light hitting her. She looks ethereal in the golden light, like an angel.

If it weren’t for Laurie, Art would’ve been an angry mess out of his first marriage. But with Laurie around, he can find peace that simply intensifies as the days go by. There’s no doubt in his mind that this is it—she is what he needs in his life. Sometimes he wonders whether this is what Paul felt for Kathy—the tranquillity and serene happiness that he’d never felt when he’s with Paul. If that were true, then Paul must’ve given up a lot to leave her and do this with Art. And these thoughts would make Art feel bad, so he’d abandon it as soon as it appeared.

“So, Paul.”

Art chokes on his coffee. Did he say that out loud? Did he say Paul’s name out loud? His mouth is sometimes not cooperative with his brain. He doesn’t like that one bit. “What’s with Paul?”

Laurie smiles and drinks her coffee before replying. “I heard he took an apartment right next to Lorne’s. Is he always that intense as a friend?”

Art laughs, slightly feeling bitter at the new information. Oh, Paul has a new best friend now. Who's this Lorne person? Has Artie met him? Probably. He forgot whether he'd met Kathy and Peggy, what's another name? Lorne. Yeah, he's seen Lorne. Yeah, he's heard that they're good pals now. So Paul moved across the hall to be with him, eh? Across the hall is closer than three blocks away that separated them in their youth, isn’t it? That’s nice. So he must’ve liked Lorne better, then. Why? How? What does Lorne have that Art doesn't? A TV show? A flat next to Paul's. Paul as a friend. Art swallows his rant and smiles to the coffee cup. “Yeah, he is.” He gulps. Laurie follows the suit. Art starts again, trying to sound as casual as he could. “How was working together with him?”

Laurie had, in fact, met Paul last year when they starred in a film together. Art felt like it’s some sort of mean joke, pairing them up as on-screen lovers. Although it was brief, Art didn’t feel very happy about it. Perhaps he’s just being possessive. No, he definitely was. But towards Laurie or towards Paul? Both, he realised. Is that weird? That's definitely weird. But Art is weird, so what else is new?

Laurie's eyes drift upwards towards the ceilings, and she inhales the scent of her coffee before she answers. “Well, he’s nice, I think. Mild-mannered. Very polite.”

Art laughs again and shakes his head. “No, that’s not Paul.”

“Funny.” Laurie smiles.

Art nods. “That one, yes.” His brows furrow. “I don’t understand the decision, though. You and Paul… I don’t know. Just doesn’t make sense.”

“What? Because he’s shorter than me? Art, I thought you’re bigger than that.” Art grins and Laurie laughs. “Also, you know, he’s seeing Shelley now. So I guess that’s settled. That’s just his brand, hanging out with taller companions, don’t you think? Shelley, me, you…”

“Me?” Art quickly shot. Then he laughs, a little nervously. “Oh. Yeah. The duo. Yeah, of course. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe that’s just his type.”

Laurie’s eyes warm up as she looks up at Art. She looks so content and beaming, as if she’s the sun itself. She looks at Art with such admiration that he’d never known before and every time she directs those eyes at him, he feels his heart soaring. He loves Laurie. He loves Laurie so much.

How did Paul do it—loving Kathy and Art at the same time like that? Art can’t do that. He loved Paul—still does; it’s just something that he can’t shake. Loving Paul is his natural state of being; like a reflex, like an automated body function. It's like turning around—loving Paul is just as easy as that. But if they’re jumbled together, how can Art give the amount of love that each of them deserves? Laurie doesn’t deserve half-assed affection. Neither does Paul. So, although it seems like cold to cut Paul off his life, it’s really for the best. He wants to love Laurie and this is his way to love Paul, too. Paul had found his Laurie, once, with Kathy, when Art was far away. Probably this time, it’ll happen again. And didn’t Paul meet Lorne? And didn’t Paul meet Shelley? It’s all working out.

He can't see any future with Paul. With Laurie, there is. This choice makes sense. This makes sense for the long run. Paul should've been with Kathy, too, back then. He didn't make the right choice, running towards Art. It's nice and all, just doesn't make sense. Paul doesn't make sense. He never does.

“Art?”

Laurie’s fingers brush his knuckles and Art realised that he’s sobbing. He looks at his trembling fists and wonders. That feeling—that stabbing feeling in his chest, the one that he felt when he saw Paul standing in his dingy hotel room that rainy afternoon in London—comes knocking again. Only this time, it’s more painful than anything he’d ever endured before. His body registered the pain before his brain does. When he noticed the emerging longing, Art buries his face on the fold of his arms and grunts, forcing his sobbing out of his mouth in one sitting. He then lifts his face again, finding Laurie and calmness, and sighs. “Sorry about that.”

That day, Art asked Laurie if she’d like to move to New York with him.

***

The reasoning makes perfect sense: after appearing with Paul for his special show with Lorne, he's gonna have another involvement of Paul as he'd agreed to fill as backing vocal for his new song and everything's so much easier in place he already knows. Plus, he’s travelling around for his movies and music and New York would be as good port as any, Laurie is starting her photography career… It makes sense.

What doesn’t make sense is how he refused to marry Laurie.

Paul and Shelley greet them loudly at the door. Laurie had opened it, and now she’s shouting at Art that the two of them had come. Art smiles politely as he takes his strides towards the front door, welcoming Shelley with a bottle of champagne and Paul with a bouquet of flowers, supposedly for Laurie. But it wasn't, and it puts a smile on his face. Paul's still that person he hung out with in high school. Still that person he fell in love with.

Still that person he wants to have a future with.

Art shakes himself out of the train of thoughts, chuckles, and points at the arrangement. “Still on this, Paul? Really?”

“What?” Paul laughs. He hands the bouquet to Laurie, who thanks him and sniffs the flowers delicately.

Art puts his arm around Laurie. “He gave the exact same thing for my graduation. Kept on calling my head dandelion-y. Grow up, Paul.”

Shelley snickers. “Well, to be fair, it _is_ quite dandelion-y.”

Paul adds, “Also, it’s not the _exact same thing._ See? I added… What’s that called, Shelley?”

“Marigold.”

“Marigold.”

Art winces. "Is that what you do in your free time, then, Paul? Finding flowers that look like me? How many have you got now?"

"Hey, it's a valid coping mechanism. Shelley's helping, too." Shelley nods with a large grin, adding 'it's a nice way to pass time'. Art puts his hand on his chest with a faux gasp at the betrayal, which earned him a hearty laughter from the woman. Shelley laughs freely. Paul must've liked that. They're quite alike. Happy. Smiley. Paul points impolitely at Art. Very Paul. "Hey, you're the flowery one. Quit providing us with jokes."

Laurie giggles behind the bushel of flowers. “Honey, this flower _does_ remind me of your hair.”

Art rolls his eyes but smiles. He steps aside to let his guests in, then closes the door behind him. “You know, I once thought that _you_ remind me of marigold,” he says softly to Laurie. Laurie smiles and raises her eyebrow in question. Art replies with a nod. “I think so. Beaming, sunny.”

Laurie tilts her head. “Sunny? That's a strange word to be attached to me, don't you think?”

“I think you are.” Art stumbles upon words. How does he tell a girl that she reminds him of fresh golden morning where the weather is nice, the sky is blue and the birds are chirping? Which words would fit there? “I love you.”

That’s it. So easy. Everything about Laurie, when he’s with Laurie, is so easy. Was it like that too with Kathy? If this was what Paul felt for Kathy, how much more did he feel for Art? No. Don’t think about that. That’s hurtful.

“What a lovely apartment!” Shelley chirps out a comment, pulling Art out of his daze. Laurie’s eyes and smile linger for a little while, then she turns her head and begins her hostly duties.

They spend the night eating, talking, laughing, drinking. They stay in late and go home with a polite wave. Art and Laurie decided to leave the cleaning up for the morning and go straight to bed. Art turn off the lamps and snuggle with already-drowsy Laurie in his arms, thinking about how much he loves the woman, and how much he doesn’t know the distance between that and what he feels for Paul.


	6. What Love Brings Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art trying to make sense of things.

Artie once again finds Paul Simon in the studio with him. His voice, sweet and gentle, rounded, both bold and insecure, fills the air around him again. Art folds his arms and listens, as still as a stick, to Paul, who's ringing melodies like cranked-up music box. Art smiles more gently than he intended when Paul notices him and waves.

The session feels a little odd. Art has never been around Paul and has to not feel fond of him before. Probably he has? He definitely has. It's been like this ever since he realised what this is. He'd sat in Paul's bedroom, flipping through his notebook, loving Paul, quietly. Sure, his feelings got wild only after several years of their friendship, but after all these years, after these intense feelings, these deep scars, Art has no idea how to access the memory of that time. Art recalls that he once thought Paul would kill him one day, and it’s a little funny because he still might. Art remembers Paul promising him the world. Art remembers his fears, his dazzled state, his awe… and it all muddled his time before these feelings arose. Could it be that these feelings had been there from the start? Art can remember how attracted he was to the boy who came out of nowhere, striding so confidently towards him, studying him and wanting him more than anything in the world. He’d been loving the feeling of admiration from that boy from the start.

Could it be? Can he really say that it was love from the beginning? And that he’s just too young to understand the gravity of it, the depth of it, the possibility of it?

Art processes love in more quiet and less flashy way than Paul, but also more direct. Paul, for example, had chosen to dedicate his success to a girl he had a crush on—Sue Landis. Without saying things to her, he just showed her. He made a song for her—he finally confessed of the inspiration behind his first-ever song to Artie, some years ago, during one of their attempts of reconciliation. He did big things without articulating what it all means, leaving the other party dazed and dazzled but unsure. It’s his style of loving—a cryptic torment. Art’s not like that. He doesn’t show anything until it’s needed. He doesn’t make grand gestures. He says things when he knows it with surety, and he will hold on to that piece of conclusion steadfastly. Everything is exact. No one needs to wobble around to interpret his actions.

Paul’s an idiot. Super idiot.

“Oh, gee, thanks, that’s sweet.”

Art blinks. Paul’s looking at him with a frown. His face turns confused as Artie making inexplicable surprised noises, before he finally says, “Artie, you know you said that out loud, right?”

“Oh.” Art blushes. “No, I didn’t. I’m sorry.”

Paul pats him on the shoulder. “No worries. Good to know I’m still an idiot in your head.”

Art grins. “You’re always an idiot.”

“Idiot with Grammys. Suck that, Garfunkel.” He laughs and turns his heels. “Anyway, if we’re done with the recording…”

Before he realised, Art’s hand has moved to grip Paul’s arm, stopping him on his track. Paul looks at Art’s shaking fingers, then at Art, mildly surprised but mostly intrigued. Art swallows hard, trying to get his brain and mouth to reconcile their differences and just come up with normal invitation.

“Let’s grab a beer together.” Art begins to smile. He did it. He sounds like normal people. “I wanna catch up.”

Paul stays quiet for a while, probably calculating, then nods. He, again, pats Art, this time on the knuckles, until Art releases his grip on Paul. “Sure. That’d be great. Hey, if you want, we can grab one at my place. Shelley’s in California until next week, so we'll have the place to ourselves. Lorne just came from Alaska, and he gave me this really good beer... I think I still have some. You'll like it. You need to call Laurie first, in case we’re late?”

“Oh.” Art shakes his head slowly, half thinking. “No. Laurie’s taking a course out of town. Yeah, she’s coming back in a couple of days.”

Paul lifts his eyebrow. The more silence they share, the more Art realises what his invitation must’ve sounded like. But it wasn’t his intention. He didn’t want to say it like that. He didn’t even know he was going to invite Paul to “catch up”. He just… moved. Like the way he moved back to New York, bringing Laurie with him, for cheap reasons he knows weren’t true. And he's not guilty of anything, is he? He's not. Paul's the one issuing invitation into his private quarter. Art's not guilty of anything. He's not plotting anything...

“Okay.”

***

Several minutes later, Art’s sitting in Paul’s apartment. The apartment, modern and cosy, has trails of a woman resident: some fat white candles with floral scent on the desk, vase—now emptied until Shelley’s return—with elegant facets, tasteful shell bowl, comfortable and bright-coloured pillows. Art tries to remember Paul’s room from the old time. Red door, wooden floor, walls filled with large posters—The Knicks, The Yankees, The Rangers, The Presley, The Everly’s… He realises that this apartment still carries similar nuance, only with better smell.

Paul sits on the armchair, keeping safe but still friendly distance between them. Art lifts the offered beer to his lips and takes a small gulp. The familiar smell latches on his nostrils and he pushes down the fizzy sensation down his throat. After another gulp, his body begins to warm up and he realises how cold his hands were before. Art nods at the drink. "This is good."

Paul smiles, his expression less casual that he’d care to give away. “So,” he says, “I assume you’re not here to…”

Art quickly shakes his head.

Paul scoffs a laughter. “Okay, you don’t have to answer _that_ quickly. Thanks.”

Art grins. “Sorry. I’m just… Honestly, Paul, I’m not really sure why I’m here.”

Paul shrugs. “Maybe you’re actually just here to catch up. You’re just confused because it’s been a while since the last time we do this without ulterior motive. And anyway, there’s a lot to catch up after all. My last album…”

“No, Paul.” Art interrupts and shakes his head before suddenly feeling guilty from rudely cutting Paul mid-sentence. He bites his lip and builds determination. “I mean, I’m not sure why I’m here. In New York.”

Paul frowns. He takes a large gulp out of his beer bottle before settling it on the coffee table. He looks—glares—at Art. “What do you mean?”

Art opens his mouth and closes it again, several times, until he’s sure he looks like puffer fish enough. Then he clears his throat and stammers like his teenage self. Good job, Arthur. “I mean… I love Laurie…”

“Good start. Go on.”

Art grimaces, as if he just swallowed something bitter. But Paul’s in good mood. He’s not angry at Art for loving Laurie. No more, maybe. Is it because of Lorne? Did he fix all hatred problems Paul might have held when Art decided to walk out of them? What did he do, offered him all the good beers in the world? God, this is a good beer. Anyway. Now that he thinks of it, _he’s_ the one who said that he’s not done with Paul, then flash, bam, he’s done with Paul. Paul must've been angry. He has all the rights to be angry. Okay, if Paul wanna kill him, he has all the right to. Art will write a new will, then. I hereby declare that Paul Frederic Simon is allowed to kill me by his preferred method, including but not limited to stabbing with sushi knife, no questions asked.

“What’s with sushi knife?”

Art squeezes his eyes and groans. “God, I can’t believe I did that again. Sorry. Forget it. You know I sometimes say things I think of, without meaning to."

"Yeah..." Paul nods, sipping on his beer, frowning. "Then why are you thinking of sushi knife?"

Art shrugs. "Okay, this is stupid, but... I always thought one day you’ll kill me with a sushi knife. I don’t know, that thought just occurred to me on the first day we met. Hey, you're scary! You have to admit that! Don’t ask questions. Anyway, what I was saying is… God, this is hard.”

Paul grins. “Drink your beer, Artie.”

Art nods and obliges. He thinks about how Paul’s orders are processed almost automatically by him, it’s silly. Artie, follow me. Artie, you sleep on the couch. Artie, hold this. Artie, watch me. Artie, Artie, Artie. Yes Paul, yes Paul, yes Paul. He’s so stupid.

Art clears his throat, taking note on how Paul’s being unusually patient with him. “I love Laurie,” he begins again. That’s good as a start as any. “But I just… I don’t know. I think…” Art clenches the neck of his bottle as if trying to strangle it. He feels bad for the bottle but he can’t relax his fingers. “I miss you.”

Paul smiles. “And you love me?”

Heavily, Art nods.

“Oh look at that, that’s me in the 60’s. Hi, 20-year-old Paul. Love that cursed thing you're doing with your hair.” Paul downs his drink and sets the empty bottle away. His body freezes in the air, considering to move closer, but decided against it and settles himself back in the armchair. Still, he extends his arm to give a comforting pat on Art’s knee. Good old Paul. He _always_ touches people. But does he? Not really. He _always_ touches Art. “I know what you’re going through. You know that, right? You were there when I was with Kathy. I know it’s not easy and, hey, don’t beat yourself up about it. Laurie doesn’t know and she doesn’t need to know, so you go on loving her the way you want. I know and I’ll understand.”

Art lifts his face, somehow hopeful… for what, he doesn’t know. “You will?”

Paul frowns and nods. “Of course, buttwipe.”

“Wow. See, Paul? That, right there, is what makes you the greatest poet of us all.”

Paul snickers and Art, finally, returns the laughter, relieved. He throws his back to the chair, burden lifted off his chest, and sighs. “How did you do it, Paul? How did you go through this, with Kathy?”

Paul takes his time to reply. He stands up, walks up his fridge to fetch another bottle of beer, takes a sip and walks back to the coffee table. Art doesn’t mind. He doesn’t need quick reply. He quite enjoys the mundane movements Paul makes. It’s as if nothing is wrong. Nothing hurts. When Paul finally sits, now on the sofa with Art but still in a distance, the jabbing pain returns to Art’s chest. So close. They're so close, yet they have to keep their distance like this. It's always like this.

“If you don’t recall, Artie, you said the same thing that I just did, back then. That you would understand. That I'm free to treat you however I want,” he said, with a sigh. Then he shrugs and takes another sip off his bottle. “Honestly, it didn’t do much relieving. And I know that right now you don’t think that me being fine with it is enough, but there’s nothing you can and will do to change the situation. So here’s an expert advice: try to deal with it and take what you can get. You’re hurting much less people when you just accept that.

“The thing is, Artie, if it weren’t for the album, I would’ve given you up for Kathy.” Art sinks himself deeper into the couch, as if Paul had just shoved him. Paul continues, ignoring it. “That’s why I made up my mind with Peggy. I understand that us… we can’t ever have completion. I love you. I can be mad at you but I can’t see any time, any way that I will ever stop being in love with you. But maybe that’s just it. I love you, and that’s all there is. It’s not just that there’s no way for us to be together, but it’s that… I don’t know, Artie. It just seems like we _can’t_ be together. Sooner or later, I’ll hurt you, and you’ll hurt me, and we’ll have to keep our distance wounded. Maybe we’re just not meant to be together. I don’t know.”

Art tilts his head, trying to process the words carefully. “But that doesn’t mean that you don’t want to, does it?”

Paul shakes his head. “No, of course not. I want to be with you, more than anything. But it’s not just the world that’s standing between us, Artie, it’s us. I think, for some reason, we keep on sabotaging ourselves when we’re together. So maybe we’re just going to have to accept that.”

“That we’re never gonna be together.”

“That I love you. And you love me. And I will do anything to make you happy. So if one day, _finally,_ being with me will make you happy, more than anything,” Paul nods, “we will be together. I’ll do anything to be together with you. When the time comes.”

Art, slowly, sluggishly, straightens his back, his energy lost in maze of confusion and he can’t see any way that it’s coming back. “When the time comes,” he repeats.

Paul looks at him. “But this is not the time.”

He leans in and kisses Art on the cheek. Sweet, lingering, painful. Art closes his eyes and lets his breath hides itself from his lungs, only returning when he starts turning blue. Paul does things. Paul does big things to show his love. But then he does this little thing, the magnitude of his feelings just comes rolling like a raging storm and Art drowns in it, he’s swallowed by it, dying in it. He draws air with desperation and staggers upon questions of how painful it must be to keep something so colossal in a body so small.

He loves Laurie. That's the truth. But what he feels for Paul, not even love can explain that.


	7. What Tenderness Hears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Artie spends the night in Paul's apartment.

When was the last time? It’s been so long. It’s been too long. They haven't kissed like this ever since that time in the cabin, with the odd-tasting Sazerac and Paul still had his funny beard. Art sighs into Paul's mouth, relishing the taste of the moment. Paul’s lips are so soft, so warm. His tongue is wet, snaking between rows of Art’s teeth, caressing the inside of his mouth. Art wants it to stay there. Art wants Paul to stay there.

“Artie…” Paul wipes a droplet of tear from Art’s eye, then kisses where his skin touched. But Art doesn’t wanna talk about it. He just wants to glue his mouth on Paul’s. He presses himself on Paul, his arms wrapping tightly around Paul’s waist, feeling the contour of his spine. His body is tender, the heat is searing as if he’s made of fire. Art loves it. Art loves the feeling of burn on his fingers, his hands. Paul was made of flame.

Art yanks Paul's shirt out of the jeans waistband, his heart beating fast. It's funny, how the closer you get to something you've yearned for long, the more painful it feels. Art lets his fingers slide on Paul's skin, finding new tightness of his now-toned body. Art looks down, excited.

Then the door cracks open.

“Hey, Paul, I got this _really_ great cigars, and…”

Art pushes Paul to the couch, the heavy thud and a small grunt informed him that he put a bit more force than necessary. Paul’s apartment door is gaping like a cave, a set of keys with blue keychain dangles from the handle. Behind the kitchen counter, with crisp suit and loosened tie, is Lorne, chewing bits of peanuts he stole from Shelley’s shell bowl. His eyes widen at the sight of Art’s dandelion hair and Art, without thinking, brings his hand to his emptied beer bottle and hurls it at Lorne.

“Artie, no!” Paul jumps and takes a hold at Art’s hand, gripping on it. His eyes flit from pale Art to pale Lorne, his throat closing. Art is shaking like a leaf. Paul realised that he, too, is shaking. He tightens his grip around Art’s wrist, then clears his throat. “Lorne, get out,” he says. Paul's eyes remain at Art's. Art's still glaring at Lorne. Lorne's looking at Paul. Paul gives out more instructions, firm ones. “Get out and lock the door behind you. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Sorry. Sorry, Lorne, get out.”

With quick and, possibly, scared nod, Lorne walks backwards and soon disappears behind the door. Paul listens to the clicking sound of lock mechanism and sighs. Art, dazed at the fit of violence he just submitted to, still hasn't done trembling. He glares at his left hand, where Paul's fingers circle. He just threw a beer bottle at a person. Real-life, breathing person. Who just saw him and Paul getting hot and heavy on the couch. He's not sure which one's making him sick—the violence or the getting-caught part—but Art feels like throwing up.

“It’s okay, Artie. He knows.”

Art flinches.

Before he knows it, his body has moved away. Paul's words fade quickly, then just as sudden, it intensifies and momentarily deafens him. His eyes grow wide. Blood drains from his face, leaving him white as ghost. When words come around, it comes out like accusation. “You told him? You told Lorne?”

“Well…” Paul furrows his brows. “Well, kinda. I mean, he knows. No, I mean, he _guessed._ Correctly, mind you. So I just… I just said yes." He squeezes gently on Art's arm and his voice softens, dropping to a little whisper. "I’m sorry, Artie. I was lonely and confused. I’m sorry.”

“You told him,” he repeats.

Paul withdraws his hand. He'd never found Art to be terrifying before, but right now it seems like he should've. Art still doesn’t move. He just stays still like a very angry statue, frozen in rage. Paul quickly puts more distance between them, cowering to himself. “Artie, I’m sorry.” His apology sounds squeaky.

Art’s not sure why this is so bad. Is it because Paul trusts someone else that’s not Art? Is it because it’s no longer a secret only the two of them share? Whatever the reason is, this is an obvious jealousy. Because Art knows Paul just don’t talk about his romantic affairs to _anyone_ —barely even Art—and Lorne just, what, knows him for a couple of years and he’s got all the scoop?

“I can’t talk about you to _you_.”

Art raises his eyebrows. “Did I say things out loud?”

“Huh? No?” Paul frowns. “Artie, you might need to check yourself up and I’m not even trying to be funny right now.”

Art grins and nods. “Yeah, you might have a point.”

Paul sighs at the grin. Carefully, he puts his hand back on Art’s forearm, squeezing it a little. “I really am sorry.” Art nods. Somehow, that doesn’t make Paul feel better. “I was lonely.”

“Paul, I get it.” And Art smiles to make it better. He slides his arm off Paul’s grip and laces their fingers together instead. “Paul, come here.”

After all these years, Art is still amazed at how forceful Paul’s arms are. He brushes his fingers over the flexing muscles, over and over until he can remember the curves. He learned street-fighting, Mrs. Simon once said. He was always freaked about his height, and like text-book small kids, Paul compensated with strength. He didn’t linger around the scene for too long, for all she knows. And Art supposed Paul never did get violent. Even in their teen years, where they had to stroll through angry neighbourhood to get to high school, Paul would either surrender his lunch money or take the beating instead of launching an attack. And he really could’ve run past all that with his well-trained legs but he never did. He never left Art alone. He’s always been, Art believes, a gentle person. If his career in brutish sports betrays this, the way he cradles Art will prove it.

And the way he smiles at Art, right there, will prove it.

“You know you said this is not why you’re here, right?” Paul giggles. He has a very happy laughter. Art can’t make noise that happy. Paul is amusing. He’s like a little circus and the whole children in the audience. The whole amusement park and its food vendors. Art can barely be a popcorn.

They resumed the activity Lorne interrupted, in faster pace this time. Paul had told Art how much he hated Art’s ever-present buttoned-up shirt. Or rather, his exact words were, “God, Ira, do you actually _have_ any T-shirt at all?” Art didn’t. He has three now. He never wears it in front of Paul, partially to piss him off. The other part, because he likes it when Paul unbuttons his shirt and kisses him on a trail that follows the direction of his fingers. Collarbone. Chest. Abdomen. Then he’ll return to kiss Art’s lips, that little tease.

This is one of rare places where Art is the impatient one. He tugs on Paul’s shirt forcefully, without finesse or elegance, or even control, for that matter. And he’s pulling and pushing, gripping and kissing roughly, almost violent. Paul would laugh at that, because Art in heat is Art with even worse coordination and he’d struggle with the simplest task such as working on zippers. “Sshh,” Paul says, as if Art had been noisy instead of merely clumsy, “let me take care of this.”

It’s a pretty standard procession. After that, Art would go silent and let himself be taken care of by Paul. But today, for once, it feels all wrong. He looks at Paul, who’s on his feet, relieving his belt buckle and rolling down his jeans. Is it an older brother thing? Art is the middle child; he’s independent but he knuckles under. And Paul, well, takes care of things. He gets things done and he gets to be original with his initiatives. Could it be that?

“Paul,” Art calls softly. Paul turns his head, finding Art looking at him with unusual tenderness and his typical determination. Art reaches his hand towards Paul, who tilts himself until the tip of Art’s fingers meet the skin on his hip. He moves closer very slowly and Art, his eyes first glued to the recently-exposed area before leaving to find Paul’s deep brown eyes. His lips quiver slightly when they parted, and his voice comes out raspy when he speaks. “I want to take care of you.”

And with that, without waiting for Paul, Art closes his lips to kiss Paul between his legs. He grunts and Art feels a little yanking on his hair. The grip loosens soon. Paul doesn’t incite unnecessary pain when he can help it. He’s so gentle, Art could cry.

Can Paul remember what his father said to Art when they first met? It was a few days after the first time Paul invited Art to his house and he’d been in that bedroom a couple of times since, but was never graced by the presence of the breadwinner of the Simon household. In that rare evening as Art was beginning to collect his stuff to return to his own home three blocks away, the front door opened and there was Mr. Simon, crunching his tired knuckles and blinking in slow way that every Simon man does. Paul half-dragged Artie downstairs to present him to his father, as if Art was a prized pig that Paul managed to raise as a science project. Art remembers how he made his little bow and little smile, and Mr. Simon looked at him with a scowl and measuring eyes, then pressed his face closer to Art’s.

“I don’t like you.”

He remembers Mrs. Simon gasped and said her full-of-warning, “Lou!” and Paul, with voice raised, “Dad, you can’t say that to my friend!” Eddie peeked from behind his mother, careful not to get involved, and Art wished he could be there with Eddie instead, too. They just shared a look. Both of them shrugged with wide eyes. That was the day that Art and Eddie realised that they're basically friends already. And when Art removed his eyes from Eddie, Paul had grabbed his hand and dragged him back to the bedroom again. Art made another weird nod whilst being whisked away and Mr. Simon just stood there in silence, watching them with sharp eyes.

What could it be that made him say that? Did he sense that this was coming?

In the bedroom, while Art stood stunned by the door, Paul immediately stuffed his schoolbag with clothes and books. He was mumbling something angrily and lashed it at his pyjamas, crumpling it into inexplicable mess before shoving it down the open bag. Art was still unsure of what just happened and what to do, but Paul packed up Art's remaining belongings and pushed the bag to his chest and dragged him down the stairs again. He just noticed the situation when he, once again, was face to face with Mr. Simon.

“I’m gonna stay over at Artie’s,” Paul said, through his teeth. Mr. Simon didn’t seem to be surprised or upset, he simply looked at his oldest son, then at his confused friend, and said nothing. Mrs. Simon ran up from the dining room and her mouth opened to complain at the sudden itinerary, but changed her mind upon seeing the three males in the corridor. She reminded Paul of his books and toothbrush, then waved them goodbye. When Paul opened the front door and Art’s left foot was meeting the first part of the outside of The Simons house, he could hear Mrs. Simon scolding about the rudeness of Mr. Simon and how it had scared “the kind young man” and angered her precious little son.

Paul spent the rest of the evening loudly ranting about his father and, most of all, tending to Art. He let Art have more portion of snacks, more quantity of iced tea, more area to sit on the bed, more talking time. He let Art choose the records to play and didn’t make fun of it, played songs that Art liked to sing, and he sang for Art. It’s almost funny how he made sure that Art was fine after the unexpected attack.

Paul is the gentlest person in the world. Even in his rash way, he’s never anything less than that.

“Paul, I love you.”

He wants to go back to that day, when Paul touched his face and asked if he's okay, if he's feeling alright. He wants to go back to that day and tell him that he loves Paul. He wants to close his eyes and lean in and kiss Paul that day, just a few months after they met, so they'd get to have this more. So they'd miss out on each other less. He wants those years back. He wants to have Paul sooner.

"Paul, I love you."

Why does it always sound as if he’s not happy to love Paul? Why does it always sound like a confession of a sin, and that he needs forgiveness for having this feeling? Is it the intensity that guilt him? Is it the fact that it’s Paul? 

“I love you, Artie.” Paul’s profession is much less guilt-ridden. Art closes his eyes and tries to analyse the texture of his words. _I love you, Artie._ Paul’s words are always riddled with pain. “Fuck, I love you.”

 _I love you, too._ So they _can_ agree on something, then? Paul had begun rambling and his kisses on Art’s shoulder had turned more violent; more teeth, more force, more, the word “devouring” is slowly becoming more literal. Art raises his hips, meeting Paul’s thrusts. He hears rough grunt that’s quickly dissipated into restrained seething that escaped between gritted teeth. Must they always quiet themselves? Must they always keep themselves unheard? Art squeezes his eyes shut and screams into one of Shelley’s yellow pillows as he finishes himself on the leg of the sofa.

Paul quickly follows the suit, and again they collapse together, pressed on the couch. Paul giggles breathily behind Art’s ear. “That’s new. What’s with the screaming? A habit you cultivated in marriage?”

Art grins but can’t manage a reply more wordy than a weak shake of head. Paul moves to relief Artie off his weight, but Art catches his arm and pins it under his chest. He shakes his head again, still making no noise, but still Paul listens and returns to cover Art with his body and kisses him wherever his mouth can reach.

Sleep finds Paul first. Art spends what time he had left to tenderly caress Paul’s fingers and quietly, between soft sobs, whispers “I love you” over and over again, waiting for it to sound unreal, but it never does.


	8. What Hides in Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awkward breakfast party.

The first thing Paul finds in the morning is Art’s hair, reflecting the pouring sunlight from the window no one bothered to cover. Paul winces, not ready for the blinding attack, then sneezes, because it tickles his nose. Art stirs and eventually wakes up to the sound of giggling that grows louder and more violent the more Art moves. Paul clasps his hands over his mouth, trying to stop, to no avail. Art grins sleepily. “Still on the hair? Really? It’s been over 20 years, Paul. Grow up.” He frowns and adds mockingly, “I suppose you just don’t do that, do you?”

Paul breaks the laughter and flashes a toothy smile instead. “Oh, that’s over the line.”

“Sorry,” Art laughs, then leans forward to kiss Paul.

As soon as the kiss breaks, Paul smiles, happy like a child. “Well, we haven’t seen morning quite like this in a long time, have we?”

Art chuckles softly. “No, we have not.”

Paul groans and crawls to find a seat on his couch, stretching, his joints making cracking noise. “My back hurts, man. I have a spring bed and some fancy pillows in my bedroom, but no, you have to make me sleep crouched on the carpet.” Art apologises again with another grin, although he feels no remorse.

He stands up and finds his briefs, pulling it up, ignoring Paul’s loud protest, and walks up the kitchen to get himself some water. The sight of shattered glass bottle on the floor reminds him of last night. His heart sinks in his chest and his body feels cold. It terrifies him, how he lost control and did _that._ What if he's much more drunk? Would he be more violent? Would he put Lorne, or _Paul,_ in danger because he's panicked? His body trembles a little at the thought. Art chooses to ignore it.

Paul, anyway, notices the brief pause and calls out to Artie, as careful as he can so to not scare him. “I think we should talk with Lorne,” he says, softly. He looks at Art from the couch, only half of his head visible from where Art is standing. His eyes are sharp, observing, analysing. Art knows he's supposed to feel disturbed by that, but he always likes being put under microscope. To be viewed, to be studied; he enjoys being an object of someone's curiosity. And Paul is like cat with unlimited lives. “Or, I will. I just thought, probably need to talk about last night or something? I don’t know. I feel like I should. Or actually, I feel like _you_ should. Or, _we_ should? I mean, I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable about what I share with Lorne after this.”

Art feels his eyebrow raising against his will. “Oh?” he says, almost sarcastically. “And what did you share with him, before this?”

Paul shrugs. “Nothing. You. My stuff. I don’t know. Just general stuff, I guess. What people talk about with their friends. Not like you know, you have none of that.”

Art smiles in spite of himself. “Okay, friends. But not like you and I friends?”

Paul presses his lips together, his face making odd and amused expression. After a while, he lets out a huff and shakes his head. “No. No, we’re not sleeping together, or doing anything remotely you-and-I-like, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Art nods slowly and takes a sip of water, thinking; about what, he’s not sure. “That _is_ what I was asking,” he says, with his usual careful pace. “But you’re sure he’s not interested?”

Paul grins. “You’re jealous.”

“Yes, I am.”

“Alright. Fun.” Paul jumps out of the sofa, finding something to wear and scrambles towards Artie as soon as the clothing is placed securely. He takes the half-full glass from Art’s hand and drinks the whole thing in one gulp. “Okay. You’re okay with me having a wife and a girlfriend, but not a friend. You’re freaking weird.”

Art frowns. “That’s different. I can’t say anything about your wife or girlfriend because…”

“I know, I know. It’s fine. I was just joking. Geez, Garfunkel, it’s like you’re on your period or something. Anyway.” Paul pats Art’s arm forcefully, smiling. “Just to be clear, I’m _really_ not interested in guys. Just you. Can’t even bear thinking doing this stuff with other guys.”

Art lifts his eyebrow. “Interesting.”

Paul narrows his eyes. “Is it? What, you’re not like that?” Art merely shrugs. Paul eyes him curiously, but decided not to push it. So he jumps to sit on the kitchen counter, reaching up for the phone, then dials Lorne on the next door. What he says can barely pass as a conversation: “Sup, assface. Get in here in 20 minutes. Bring pancakes. And orange juice, I’m out.”

Art makes a funny face when Paul puts the phone back. “Did you deliberately make it short and awful, or do you always talk like that?”

“What do you _mean_ ‘awful’? Anyway, Lorne can’t make pancakes. Get in the shower now, make food after. Go, go, go.”

Art feels weird to return to shower room with Paul. It’s pretty quick this time, unlike their previous encounters in the bathroom. There's no kissing, no stroking, no trying to find a way to not slip on the bathroom floor and break their necks, nothing. Just a casual conversation between two guys soaping themselves under running water. It's almost funny, but somehow, also touching—domestic, like they're really a part of one household. Art _loves_ the time they have sex, but little moments when they're just there, being together, being neutrally content, nothing superfluous... it's like slices of their lives had found its way on one same plate, and it feels like home. Art listens to Paul chattering with a soft smile that never runs out. Paul is just... so darling. Like a little kid, like a baby animal. Happy, unpredictable. Promising perpetuity. Paul is everlasting. And when he recalls their last time under the shower together, he feels aching in his chest. He can’t really remember how exactly that day ended, but he remembers it to be the worst day of his life.

Paul, when they walk out of the bathroom, is thinking of the day that followed that one. The day of his wedding, the day of the biggest joke ever told. He remembers waking up and going through the morning in a daze. He could only hear Eddie; everything he did was done out of Eddie's instructions. Paul, are you awake? Paul, have you showered? Paul, get something to eat. Paul, that's not your shoes. God, had it not been for Eddie, he would've showed up in T-shirt and boxer to his own wedding.

He remembers Art, several rooms away, with Linda, probably readying himself with the sharp suit and the pink tie. He showed up with neat hair, or at least as neat as his hair can be. His face was flushed a little. He kinda looked like medium-well steak. That's a weird sentence to think. That was a weird day to remember. He kissed a man, the love of his life, in the morning before his wedding. Wasn't that worse for luck than seeing the bride? Had he thought of that before, Paul would've just swung by Peggy's dressing room and seen what expensive dress she bought for the occasion. But anyway, why would he do that? He had Art in _his_ dressing room, holding his hand and silently swaying to an old song he recorded as a teen. What was it called? Wedding Waltz? No one in the world would remember that song, but Artie does. He brought Paul's old records to the dressing room that day, didn't he? A wedding present, he said. A token that he'd always had faith in Paul, and that he'd always been watching Paul, even when they're not together. 

He wonders whether Art still keeps the ring he gave. Paul wears it all the time, changing its position to not invite questions, but Art is clear of any ring. Paul tilts his head to take a peek, making sure that he gets it right. Art is rummaging through his dresser, trying to find something fitting to wear for the breakfast. He moves so clumsily, it's like a cry for help. No, nothing. “Artie, do you keep my ring?”

Art ceased his movements. “The ring? The one with delicate term of endearment?”

“That’s the one.”

Art grins. “Look, I know I don’t wear it, because I don’t wear jewellery and people would start asking questions if I do, but I do have it.” He paused, hesitating. “Do you want me to wear it?”

Paul shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe. Not really. Don’t mind that, I’m just asking. Hey, let’s make eggs, schmuck.”

Paul does that. Art has known the man for two decades, and he’s still not sure, when this happens, whether Paul is really fine or is simply avoiding unpleasant conversations. Paul has his way around those. And because it sometimes comes back around, Art is always a little wary about Paul’s abrupt change of subject.

Still, there’s really nothing Art can add to the story. He has the ring inside a tiny linen pouch that everyone, in case they saw it, always thought to be a family heirloom from his mother, owing to the flower embroidery. But Paul never talked about the ring before—not like they’d ever had any chance to—so this never came up. Art would never have minded to tell him the fate of his expensive ring. Anyway, probably it’s really nothing. Unless Paul wants to introduce Art as his wife to Lorne, of course, considering he’s the only person in the world who knows and this might be the only chance to. Art grins at the thought, shaking his head.

“You know, in France, there’s this omelette that’s super fluffy.” Paul is beating half a dozen of eggs. Paul had changed his mind about the pancake earlier and had instead called for preparation for omelettes. Art doesn't mind, considering Paul had said that he'd run out of syrup. He's more concerned of other things. For example, if Paul is in one of his funny moods, Art’s pretty sure one of the eggs would wind up on his head. So he keeps a safe distance from Paul, chopping things; now, basil. “It’s called… something.”

Art snorts a laughter. “That’s very informative. Good job, Paul.” He’s starting on tomatoes. Art likes tomatoes in his omelette, and mushrooms and probably bell peppers. Paul doesn’t have any bell peppers, or mushrooms. Art feels a little disappointed, for stupid reason; he was thinking about the night of the Bandstand where they kissed for the first time, and there was pizza there, with all its tomatoes and mushrooms and bell peppers that he secretly sneaked to place on Paul’s slice. Probably he’s just being nostalgic today. He’s just being cranky. “Do you know how to make that?”

“The omelette? No, of course not. I just suddenly remember it.” He pushes the bowl of beaten eggs to Art and walks around him to fetch the rest of the cooking utensils. Paul makes Artie’s first, with tomatoes and whatever herbs Paul has in the fridge—which is to say that Shelley bought them and they are wilting. Paul makes a spinach and cheese one for himself. Art sits on the stool, watching the fragrant smoke wafts through Paul like a ghost. The smell of creamy butter fills the room, dancing with the sound of sizzling greens. The little moment when Paul hunches over a stove and a pan, making breakfast, somehow moves Art.

A loud knock on the door pulls Art out of his reverie. Paul glances briefly at the door, then at Artie, saying, “That’s probably Lorne. Care to open it for me?”

 _For me._ “Of course.” Art effortlessly slides out of his stool, walking in long strides to turn the handle. _Anything for you_ , he thought, but he didn't say it. The door reveals Lorne, in shirt and shorts, grinning with careful wide eyes. He brings a bottle of orange juice with him. Art smirks at that, then steps back. “Come in, Lorne.”

“Thanks.” He lifts the bottle and grins wider. “Plastic. Shatter-proof.”

Art bows his head shyly and chuckles. “Yeah, about that… Sorry. I was surprised, panicked, scared...”

Lorne raises his hands and shakes his head. “No, no, completely my fault. It’s not my apartment, should’ve knocked.”

“Yeah, you should, assface.” Paul barks from the kitchen. He holds the spatula like a sword. “And we’re not making breakfast for you. You sit here and watch us eat while you starve.”

Lorne scoffs and pouts. “Torture. Classy. Alright, fine. Can I drink the juice?”

Art closes the door and joins Paul in the kitchen. Paul shoves the pepper mill to Art, already digging on his own omelette. Lorne slumps on his right, groaning and sniffing at the plates. Paul swats his head with newspaper.

“So.” Lorne straightens his back, twirling open the bottle of orange juice. Art reaches back to find him a glass. “Which one of you is the girl?”

Paul frowns and grumbles with mouth full of eggs. “What do you _mean_ which one of us is the girl? We both have dicks, that’s the problem, crackhead. Artie, take off your shorts.”

Art chokes on his omelette and quickly shakes his head. “Can I have breakfast like normal people? With my shorts still intact?”

“That’s discrimination against nudists,” Paul comments. Then he glares at Lorne sharply. “Anyway. That’s a very stupid question and I expect better from you, Michaels. _None of us is a girl._ Although, Artie _is_ prettier.”

Art nods slowly. “That’s true, that’s true. What flower did you say I look like? Not the dandelion one, the golden one.”

“Marigold.”

“Marigold.”

Lorne pinches his eyes and groans. “Gosh, you two are precious.”

“And you’re nauseating.” Paul stabs his omelette, losing his appetite. He sighs and pushes his plate over to Lorne, who digs in without being asked. “Well, Artie, not sure what to do now.”

Art laughs. “You’re the one who wanted to invite him for breakfast.”

“Yeah, to _torture_ him. Look at him now, eating my food. Clearly, I’m not good with plans.”

Art smiles and they both look down in attempt to hold back anything that involves touching, very aware of what Lorne knows and what Lorne is seeing. Lorne himself, scooping the last bite of Paul’s omelette, realises the tension and slightly wishes he doesn’t have to go through the awkward breakfast. He clears his throat. “Okay, so… that explains why you said you’d 'been Art Garfunkeled'. Hah, funny song. Boys, you can relax. As I have told Paul here, I’m not here to leak your story. Your secret’s safe with me. Although, you might wanna work on that touching his neck thing on stage.”

Paul frowns. “I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

Looking to his left and finding Art nodding with a shy grin, Paul throws his head back, thinking. “Okay,” he says slowly, “maybe I do. But that’s reflex. That has nothing to do with Artie. If I sing with… I don’t know, other people, I would be doing that too. Hey, don’t look at me like that! You know I’m touchy! And don't get all high and mighty on me like that, Arthur. You know you slapped my butt on stage that day. If Lorne found out, that's all on you.”

Art's face reddened and he blurts several gibberish responses, and Lorne pouts and mumbles, "Yeah, I had to zoom in on that one... but I can't help with everyone who'd seen that in the audience. Anyway, they _might_ simply think that you're just being... I don't know. Homosexuals. I mean, friendly. Wink."

"Do _not_ say wink when you wink."

"Okay, fine! Stop staring at each other's butts!" Lorne scoffs. “He’s an idiot. How could you like him?”

“I don’t know, Lorne. I like feeling smart,” Art smiles. He finishes his breakfast, stacks the empty plates and puts it away in the sink. Art sighs quietly, calming himself down. No, he’s sure that Lorne is not there to spread any gossip. But, no, he still doesn’t like it. Maybe it’s inevitable that _someone_ would find out, and it’s good that that someone is not throwing garbage at them, but… Art shakes his head. It’s done. It’s done; he should let it go.

“So, still doesn’t mean you’re gonna get back together?” Lorne grins, the glass filled with orange juice hangs in front of him. “No? Out of question? Sorry. A fan. So, you’re working on something, Artie? Movie? Albums?”

“No. No.” Paul swats Lorne’s face with newspaper again. “You don’t get to call him Artie. That’s mine.”

“Alright, fine! Geez, cool it, Paulie.”

Paul attacks again. “Don’t call me that.”

“Ow! I’m not a fly! Quit it!” Lorne presses his palm down Paul’s newspaper, dampening its aggression. He glares at Paul and groans. “I see, Mr. Garfunkel is the sane one in this affair. If I were you, I’d handle all the talking from now on.” Lorne finishes what’s left of his orange juice and slams the glass on the kitchen counter, an act which was rewarded with another swat on his face. “Well, it’s been nice sharing this breakfast session with you. Actually, no, I don't enjoy it because Paul kept on hitting me with newspaper, and with you, Garf, it’s pretty weird and awkward and let’s not do this again for the sake of our sanity. Art, nice talking to you. We should get a beer sometimes! But no one throws anything. Is he an angry drunk? Paul, info? Okay, good. I’ll call you. Paul, your omelette sucks. Give my love to Shelley when she returns. And Art to… Laurie, right?”

Art nods and smiles politely, waving a little to Lorne as he and Paul walk towards the door. Art stands up and turns his back from the sound of quiet exchanges between the two men on the door. To silence them, he runs the water on the sink and begins washing the dishes by hands. He feels like throwing up, and not because of the omelette. No, the omelette was fine. But he's angry. No, it's not anger, it's worse than that; it's... rage. Artie squeezes his eyes shut, suppressing the maddening heat in his chest. Bad feelings come bubbling up and he has to contain it, somehow. But what he wants is to scream and slam something against the walls. More than when he saw Lorne in the kitchen last night, he wants to throw something and see it shatter. He wants to destroy, wants to hurt someone... or something, whichever.

The truth is, he doesn’t like it. He doesn't like that Lorne knows. He will _never_ stop not liking that. And he doesn’t like that Lorne had been civil, had been nice, had been giving him no reason to be spiteful at all. He doesn't like that any of this feels unreasonable. And, God, he hates how he understands why Paul likes having Lorne around. Oh, is it, then? Plain, simple jealousy? He knows that, though. Knowing doesn't help. He should punch Lorne. Okay, that settles it.

Art jumps when he feels a squeeze on his fingers. Paul is looking at him from aside, concerned but smiling. "Those are clean," he says, turning off the tap. Artie tries to return the smile, but it falters quickly. He wobbles backwards and has to lean on the counter for support. Everything feels so overwhelming, he feels sick. 

Paul, carefully, pulls him into a hug and gingerly walks him to a seat, never letting go of the embrace. His hand rubs Art’s back up and down while the other caresses his hair, sometimes got tangled but never stopping. 

It takes a while until his trembling gets slower. The ache in his stomach is fading, but it's still there, pinching from time to time. Art grips Paul’s shirt and rests his forehead on Paul’s broad shoulder, pressing until he can't be any closer. Paul smells like omelette; creamy and herby with a touch of black pepper. They stay like that for a long time until Art begins to feel hunger rising back.

“Hey,” Paul whispers. Art can feel his head moves to aim for Art’s ear. He gives a few more strokes on the hair before placing his hand on Art’s shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze. “I know it’s not comfortable that he knows. I know it’s more difficult for you because he’s not _your_ friend. I’m sorry.”

Art shakes his head. “It’s not your fault.”

“Maybe. But maybe if I had touched you less on stage, it would be less apparent. Or—or if my butt's not so slappable...” Art laughs and buries his face on Paul’s chest, muffling the noise. Paul grins widely and wraps his arms around Art. God, he’s so warm. “I’m still sorry that I can’t make it any better for you.”

Art nods. “Thank you.”

Art closes his eyes and tries to absorb Paul, somehow. The soft sound of his breathing, the low rumbles that occasionally escape his throat, the gentle beating of his heart, the river that runs under his skin. Paul has a body made of songs; it’s intimate but delicate, like songs to dance to in secret midnight weddings. Through the lingering scent of omelette, Paul’s body gives out something faintly sweet-smelling, like a quick run without realising you just walked past a candy shop. Art tries to assign a colour for him. He's changed a lot, in a way, since Art first knew him, and on, and on. He was first a fiery red, then an insane neon yellow. But now he's neither. It must be something deep, something dark, but also brilliant, pearly… Paul would’ve known what to give Art. He’s always very firm with choices. He takes time to make one, but, God, is he unshakeable.

They are just so different. Their similarities had made that fact difficult to see, or they had tried so hard not to see it, but that’s the truth. Art realised that it’s the heart of today’s breakfast anyway; Art, as usual, had always wanted them to be just for them while Paul wants to show the world, loudly, that they’re there, perfect and existing. It must be a source of pride, somehow, to be able to find something so precious. Isn’t it like Art and his voice? Paul wants to flaunt it, Art wants to quietly enjoy it. Really, how did they even find each other like this? They’re supposed to be separated a world away; two boys with two different desires—how did they manage to have all these desires so intertwined, so inseparable?

On top of his head, Paul draws a deep breath, sharp and slightly quavering. What had he been thinking? Something sad? Something good? Just… something? Art lets himself out of the embrace, sighing heavily. When he looks up, Paul’s face doesn’t show any sign of heavy thinking. “Now what?”

Paul shrugs. “Now we have one more day until you have to come home, then you go back to Laurie.”

Art pouts sadly. “What about you?”

“What _about_ me? Don’t worry about me. I have Shelley. I’ll be fine. I _am_ fine.” Paul brings his hands to cup Art’s face on his palms. “I can be happy if you’re happy.”

“Okay, you know that’s not true.”

“Wow, a true romantic. Never thought you’re one of those.” Paul laughs and plants a kiss on Art’s forehead. “I know that, Artie. I said I _can_ be happy, though. I’m counting on possibilities. I’m good with that, aren’t I?”

Probably. Is it really happiness if you suffer to feel it? Art doesn’t know. He doesn’t even dare answering.


	9. What is Before the Storm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little peace found in each other.

“Really? So you just… run off with her?”

Paul grunts and bangs his head on the table. “Shut up. You said you won’t judge.”

A fresh frown forms on Art’s forehead. He recalls almost everything he’d ever said, and this is not a battle Paul can win. When beer bottle left his mouth, Art swallows and replies. “I said no such thing. I said ‘Laurie will be coming too’.”

“Yes, and that falls under ‘you don’t have to say it, I already know’ category. Along with ‘I’m not gonna be an ass and judge’. That’s just common sense, Artie.”

Art chuckles. “Yeah, I know. But if you’re going to tell a story of how you dump Shelley Duvall for Carrie Fisher, you have nothing to expect but judgment.”

Laurie grins. “That’s true.”

Paul sits back and leans his head on the seat of the armchair. He’s sitting on the carpet so he can stretch his legs, and now he’s noticing a matted patch under his left palm. He doesn’t like it. Maybe he should call up a clean-up service. “So, what is it, then? Is it the age? Is that a problem?”

Art, who’s also on the carpet, leans against Laurie’s knees, who's sitting on the sofa, then glances up at his girlfriend. She lifts her eyebrows and brings the drink to her lips, agreeing to be the one to answer. “Well, there’s the age thing. But that’s not the biggest deal,” she said.

“Is it because she’s Carrie Fisher? Like, _literal_ Carrie Fisher? I mean, I know there’s no other Carrie Fisher, but this one’s _the_ Carrie Fisher, you know? You know what I mean, right?”

Laurie opens her mouth but Art already groans impatiently. “It’s because you dumped a girl right after you met another girl, Paul. Why? Why is that so difficult to think of?”

Paul’s eyebrows rise up halfway to his hairline. Laurie giggles and hands him another bottle of beer, which he drinks quickly in several large gulps.

Lately, Laurie and Art had become a near permanent member in anywhere Paul sits. There’s a visible tension between them, and Paul knows why. Laurie wants to get married and Art is still haunted by the failure of his first marriage. Paul can relate to that, but he also understands that Laurie is getting frustrated with her situation—with career, with life, with relationship. It’s not something that Paul can fix if he wants to, but he’ll let them use him as a bumper—that’s the reason why they’ve been spending way too much time together, isn’t it? And anyway, Art still loves Laurie, and she him. They’ll work something out, definitely.

“Okay, first of all, I did _not_ dump Shelley for Carrie. We just… stopped. It’s completely mutual. She’s getting sick of me, I guess. Hey, don’t say you get it. And, well, she left at that exact time! Just coincidence, I swear.” He pauses to drink, noticing Art and Laurie’s amused gaze at him. Paul chuckles softly. “I don’t have a second of all, actually. But you like her, right? You like Carrie, right?”

Art sighs. “Yes, Paul, we like her. Carrie’s a good one.”

Paul nods absently. He turns on the TV and lies his head idly. It’s been an odd several years since his last album. He’s scared of everything now. With new sorts of music coming in, what if no one wants to listen to _his_ songs anymore? What should he write now? What if he can’t write anymore? He’s turning to his fourth decade in a matter of years, what if he’s just a has-been now? The scene is changing. Paul isn’t sure whether he has to keep up or stay still or just whip up a new road altogether.

Starting a new relationship with Carrie is certainly a new thing that adds up to his insecurities. Carrie is… different. She’s carefree, wild, humorous, reckless, _very_ young. A great leap from his previous experiences with mellowed lovers—from the painfully shy Kathy to thoughtful Peggy, or even the eccentric Shelley. Carrie is sequins and all-night raves, parties and hangovers.

Paul doesn’t really wanna tell anyone this yet, but Carrie had asked him to meet her father. Which he did, and they hit it off. He was a doting father, a fantastic singer. He only said great things about his daughter. But right towards the end, he cornered Paul to warn him, not to keep from messing with his daughter, but that his daughter is… Carrie. Heavy-drinking, drugs-using, feisty little Carrie. And here’s Paul, the most sober man since 1970.

But Paul isn’t scared of Carrie. Paul is scared of everything.

Paul sighs and pushes the frustration down. It’s easier that way, although probably much less healthy. The thought of world spiralling out of control is crushing him like crazy and he knows there’s nothing much he can do about it. He can try to forget it, though, that always works for as long as he can engage himself with other things. So Paul finishes his drink, puts down the bottle with gusto, wipes his mouth and offers an invitation: “Hey, you two had quite a lot tonight. Sure you don’t wanna stay over?”

***

Paul stays up. His bedroom looks blue from the light outside the window. He didn’t shut the curtains; there doesn’t seem to be any significance to it, considering he’s not going to sleep anyway. It’s been getting more difficult, going to sleep peacefully. He doesn’t want sleeping pills, but how many passing-out-from-drinking-too-much can he stand? He doesn’t really drink that much anyway. Not anymore, at least.

His guitar is resting by his bed, leaning on the nightstand. Paul picks it up and plays some random melodies. His injury from some years ago had been coming and going, but he knows he doesn’t need to worry about that unless he’s intending to intensely play for three hours straight. Still, he feeds the fear, making it bigger than he can handle. Paul waits for his eyes to tear up. It's almost automatic now.

“Paul?” 

Paul jumps in his bed, then finding Artie peeking from the door. He lifts his eyebrows at Paul’s reaction, surprised, then smiles sheepishly. “Suppose you weren’t expecting me, then.”

Paul chuckles silently, shakes his head and puts the guitar back against the nightstand. “No, not really. You wanna come in or you wanna talk from the door like that instead?”

To answer, Art pushes his body through the small crack he made out of Paul’s bedroom door. As quiet as he can, he closes the door, then tiptoes towards the bed. Art finds a seat at the edge of the bed, his bent knees almost touching Paul’s guitar. In the blue light, Art looks like a ghost that died in a river, or water spirit of some kind. It’s odd, now that he noticed. He’d seen Art in half dark before, but never quite like this. His form seems almost ethereal, unreal. His mind is playing trick on him, surely. Paul is scared, so his head finds something haunting to press on the image of his deepest love.

Paul noticed that he’s not scared of Artie.

Art is just staring at Paul, too. There’s a lingering smile on his face, sweet and light like powder sugar on a donut. But this is Artie, so maybe cruller.

Not important. Art is kissing him now, so what food he looks like is not important anymore. For the first time, Paul realised that his lungs had been bereft of breath. So he draws as much air as he can; the only one his body seems to find acceptable being the one that’s shared with Artie.

But this kiss is not let’s-have-sex sort of kiss. There’s no urgency to tear each other’s clothes off with this one. The only touch, aside from what’s going on with their mouths, is Art’s palm pressing on his cheek, with his thumb softly brushing the soft line under Paul’s right eye, while Paul simply sits there, on the receiving end. With their unfolding years, where chances to kiss had always been desperate and way too rare to waste on just _that,_ this particular sort of kiss had always taken Paul by surprise. This particular sort of kiss is the one that digs a little deeper on the infinite well of his feelings for Art. It hurts a little, but something springs out of it; something sweet, something pure. When Art brings his lips away, Paul keeps his eyes closed for several more seconds. The back of his eyes is sparkling, it’s like being under a dome of a planetarium. Smile forms on his lips and when he opens his eyes and finds Artie there, his heart slows down. What he feels, what he hadn’t felt for a long while now, is peace, tranquillity. Something he once found in Kathy that he couldn’t in Artie, is now there, where he’d always wanted it to be.

“Alright now?” Art caresses the side of his face again, tenderly.

Paul’s eyebrows jump in mild surprise. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Art shrugs, his eyes drifting away, casting a shy glance downwards. Artie is so precious, he could cry. “I don’t know,” he says, dubiously. “I just felt that something’s wrong. I hope not, though. I hope you’re alright.”

Paul wants to do something for Artie. He wants to bring him flowers, to buy the whole flower shop, to present him the whole tulip fields. He wants to take him skating, beach-combing, waltzing and any sort of dancing, drinking and dining, traipsing and busking. He wants to give Artie a little cottage under a mountain where they can grow old together, raising pigs and sheep. He’ll make fun of how Art’s now-silver hair looks like sheep’s wools. Art will make fun of how he now looks like pig. They’ll be happy together, somewhere under the mountain. Or anywhere else is fine. Paul wants to give Artie that happiness.

So, he smiles. That’s all he can do, but that seems to be the most important thing to do. “Laurie’s asleep?” Art nods. Paul takes his hand and shuffles out of the bed, putting on his fuzzy slippers. “Let’s go.”

Art laughs quietly, but still raising to his feet. “To where?”

“Hmm, to wherever we can talk more freely. This room is not exactly sound-proof, you know.” Paul stops at the door to turn around and throw Artie another look and another smile. “Trust me.”

Art returns the smile and nods. “Always.”

***

Quietly slipping through the dark living room, Paul smoothly guides Art past the tiny corridor and towards an unsuspecting white door. Very noiselessly, he turns the door handle and rushes Art to get in. With a couple of long strides, Art finds himself inside a laundry room, with Paul’s washing machine watching them suspiciously from the far end of the small room. A basket half-filled with laundry is showing Paul’s shirts, mostly recognisable by Art. The white shirt, the yellow-striped one, the jacket, the jeans. Is Paul not simply sending them to a laundering service or something? Does he actually have time to do his own laundry? Perhaps. Can he do his own laundry? Maybe.

Paul closes the door and glides towards the other end of the room where, Art now realised, another door is standing. His hand touches the door’s handles, then Paul pauses and clears his throat. “I just want you to know that it’s not like people said.”

“What do you mean?”

“I _didn’t_ buy this apartment because Lorne was here. He did it because _I_ was here. I was here first. Of course I was. I'm the New Yorker, not he. He thought it's a good idea, for some reason. Said I was his New York best friend, or whatever. He’s crazier than he lets on, you know. Actually, he's already let that on in front of you, hasn't he? Yeah, so. True to that, he's crazy.”

Art raises his eyebrow, smiling a little, both confused and curious. “I’m not gonna be mad.”

Paul sighs. “Okay,” he said. Then he opens the door.

Art walks gingerly to the other room. He feels a little like Lucy Pevensie stepping into a Narnia, if Narnia is a bright blue kitchen of Lorne Michaels. Art lifts his head, taking in the view from the top to the bottom. Wall-to-wall blue paint, stylish white frames and minimalist decoration, artificial potted plants, sleek-looking grey couch from afar, facing a big-ass TV, circled with mail desk and silver lamp. Tall shelves filled with expensive liquors. Modern, fancy, smooth—very Lorne. His public image, at least.

“So, uh,” Art begins, unsure, “your apartment is connected with Lorne’s apartment. Like, you basically live with him.”

Paul shakes his head. “Don’t be dramatic. I lock my laundry room every night for good reason. I can come in any time, he can’t come in unless he’s sane and uses the front door.” Paul frowns and mumbles to himself. “Sometimes when I forgot, he’d just come in and steal my milk in the morning. And I bet he did that from time to time when I’m not home and forgot the keys.” He shrugs. “Well, Harper likes it. He thinks it's fun.”

Art scoffs. “Bet you hope I’m Harper now, don’t you?”

Paul smiles and moves to stroke Art’s forearm, like coaxing a child. “Come on. You said you’re not gonna be mad.”

Art grumbles softly, looking down at where Paul’s fingers meet his arm. Reluctantly, he lets his lips melt into a smile. “Alright,” he says, slowly. Art grasps Paul’s arm and pulls him into a hug. “Alright. What are we doing here? Are we gonna wake Lorne up or sneak into his bedroom and draw fake moustache on his face?”

Paul laughs. “No, nothing like that. Lorne’s not here. He’s in Philadelphia. We can use his apartment all we want.”

Art tilts his face, burying it on top of Paul’s head. “Yeah? And what do we want?”

Paul playfully smacks Artie on the butt and grins. “Don’t even start. Your girlfriend’s in the other room. Come on, just sit on the couch and, you know.”

“Fuck?”

“ _Talk._ ” Paul throws a giggling fit. “God, Garfunkel, you just don’t think about anything else, do you?”

Art rewards him with a happy simpering. “Hey, I know what I like.”

He lets Paul pull him away from the kitchen, laughing merrily like a couple of kids, again. Art recalls how he used to like, the most of all, the dry summers when Paul’s baseball team played and he got to sit with his father and Eddie, drinking cold ginger ale and biting on spicy hot dog. He’d wear his nice red cap and Eddie would wear Paul’s old baseball uniform, cheering not very loudly. And when it’s done, Paul would come to them, completely sweating and dirty, to scream with Eddie and steal what’s left of Artie’s food, before going to take shower. They’d reunite at the school gate, and the less-than-menacing Mr. Simon would treat them a root beer float each.

Art remembers that after several years, he started to not finish his food on purpose. So Paul could have some. Why did he do that? Because he loved Paul. As a friend.

That's not true.

But that was a long time ago. A long time ago, before Art kissed Paul, before Paul shoved Artie, before they stopped talking and before it all began. Art seemed to always wait for Paul, going home, going away, playing, singing, running, fighting, talking.

Yeah, suppose talking was a part of the deal.

Paul pushes Artie onto the corner of the couch, bends to kiss him, very deeply, very sweetly, then parts and plops himself on the seat, leaning on Art’s chest. Art wraps his arms around Paul and folds his knee. The couch sinks under their weight. Art smiles, his heart bursting with joy. He strokes Paul’s hair and kisses his forehead. “What do you wanna talk about?”

“Hmmm…” Paul hums. “For starter, how you should really stop being all jealous with Lorne? Come on, he’s not you.”

“Oh, that’s supposed to mean something?” Paul tilts his face to meet Art and lifts his eyebrows, smirking. Art chuckles. “Okay, that means everything. Fine, I’ll behave. It’s not easy, you know. It’s not like I know how to react to the fact that you have other friends. It’s never happened before.”

“Ha-ha, very funny, Garfunkel. Hey, I have friends, alright? I’m considerably more… _normal_ than you. Your friend was _math_. Yuck.”

“Yeah, Paul, I’d prefer fucking.”

Paul laughs loudly, and for a moment he stops because he realised that he doesn’t have to hold back with his volume. Laurie can’t hear them. There’s only him and Artie now. Paul brushes Artie's face and pulls him into a gentle kiss, then smiles. "I swear I will never, _ever,_ fuck Lorne Michaels. Swear to God. Pick a God, I'll swear by them."

Art laughs. "Fuck off."

Paul grins and sinks back into Art. Art runs his fingers along Paul's arms and slowly—slowly—Paul realised what this reminds him of. That night after they first had sex together, when they were in the tub, with him leaning against Art on his back and Art's holding him in the warm water. He wasn't sure what it was then, but he should've. He should've known that he could love no one like he does Art.

"You know, Artie, I haven't told you this, but I met Carrie's father some times ago."

Art looks at him, excited. "You met Eddie Fisher? Wow, how's that like?"

"Hey, focus. That's my girlfriend's father Eddie Fisher, not the singer Eddie Fisher." Paul sighs and shrugs. "He's nice. He's very nice to me. I mean, I know Carrie has a complicated relationship with him, but he's generally okay. He just... sort of warned me about Carrie. I don't know, I mean, I know she has her issues, but..." He shrugs again. "I think he just meant... I don't know, that Carrie can bring the worst out of you. Like, dragging you down with her. She has dark episodes, and you'll wind up there, too, if you're not careful. I don't know. I think I'm prone to that already, even without her. I think he noticed that. I don't know."

Art pats Paul's forehead. "Huh. That, coming from her own father, huh?"

"Yeah, I know," he mumbles. Paul stretches in his seat, his joints cracking loudly. He places his head back carefully on Art's chest. In spite of Art's slim build, he has surprisingly sufficient amount of flesh to make him cushion-y. Paul finds the spot that cradles his head best and closes his eyes, sighing gratefully for comfort Art encapsulates him in. "I just want to see it in positive light, you know? That if he tells me that, it means he cares about me and he doesn't mind me courting her? I'm worried about that too, you know." Paul falls silent. Then, after a while:

“Artie, I think I’m falling in love with Carrie.”

“Hmm.” Art nods, absent-mindedly circling his thumb on Paul’s chest, the other hand lacing its fingers with Paul’s. “Totally prefers fucking now. Haha. No, that’s good, Paul. Paul Skywalker. Has a nice Jewish ring to it, doesn’t it?”

Paul scoffs. “Right, have you ever actually watched the movie? No? Okay, you’re welcomed to the next premiere, just shut up.”

Art cracks up, his chest quaking violently, shaking Paul’s head along with it. For a moment, they both just sit there, laughing, feeling bitter but happy. It’s the closest to real happiness that they can get, it seems. When the laughter subsides, Art rubs Paul’s chest gently, like calming down a dog or a kitten. Paul has quality of both species. He kisses Paul on the temple, softly. He whispers, “That’s good. That’s really good. I’m glad you’re happy.”

Paul shakes his head, chuckling. “Artie, how long should we stay together for you to learn that being in love does _not_ equal to being happy? Really, for such a smart guy, you can be really thick sometimes.”

“Well, if that’s the only way to stay together, perhaps I’d rather not learn at all, Paul.” Art cups Paul's face and lifts it until their eyes meet. “What is it? Why are you not happy?”

Paul shrugs. “She’s just a bit difficult, that’s all. We never stop fighting. I mean, don’t get me wrong, she’s great. Funny, sweet, insane. Just… You know. We never stop fighting.”

“Hey, that sounds like us.”

“Exactly.” Paul frowns. “Except, she’s prettier.”

“Yes, but I’m taller.”

Paul grins widely. He scoots up to catch Art’s lips, giving him a long, lingering kiss. His fingers slip to roam the wilderness of his hair, tugging on it gently, getting themselves closer. Art brushes his fingertips across Paul’s neck. Paul withdraws shortly before moan escapes their throats. He smiles. “What about you? What’s up with you and Laurie?”

Art shrugs. “Nothing’s up. I love her. We’re going through a rough patch because of this and that… You know the story.”

Paul nods. “You’re going to get past this.”

It was replied with a smile and another kiss.

And they spend the night like that. Embracing each other, gently touching, sweetly kissing, and they talk and talk about everything that’s gone by, that is and that will be. Slowly, their eyes begin to fall and they both drift into, after a long while, a peaceful slumber.


	10. What Summer Knows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art makes two phone calls from Vienna, Austria.

“It's about you.”

“It is _not!_ ”

“It is, though.”

Art can hear a loud, frustrated grunt from the other end of the receiver. Paul’s phoning him from Los Angeles, wasting money on phone calls and plane tickets just because of rumour-has-it reports. Or really, it’s not _just_ a rumour-has-it. Paul knows that Carrie’s seeing someone. With all the jokes that medias published about their relationship, Paul’s on edge enough as it is. And now, with added affair… 

He thought he should find a way to salvage what he can from this relationship. Art knows that he’d been fairly lost lately, but this is desperate, even for him. But he can do what he wants to do. Paul’s a big boy. And as far as fear-based impulses, after losing his footing with music and losing faith in his recording company, he can’t really afford losing yet another lover and his decision, in this case, probably can be justified.

Does Paul _love_ Carrie? Or is he just being scared of _everything_ and resort to a single, craziest thing he can come up with? No, people said that it’s apparent that they’re in love. It’s like romantic movie sort of love, the way they look at each other. Magnetic. Unyielding. No one else is in the room when they enter the other’s field of vision. Soft music begins to play, and all that. They dance in slow-mo, kiss with supernova effect. They’re drawn to each other like planets to a sun.

But here’s the problem with Paul and Carrie: they’re _both_ the sun. Who’s pulling who? And they fight about it, over and over again, and with friction after friction they burn even brighter, even hotter, they melt each other—in good way, in bad way. They are universe with two centres; two shots drunk with each other.

So maybe they’re in love, yeah. Their attraction with one another is undeniable; they’re _everything_ they’d been looking for. Art gets it. But the whole burning thing? Not so much. Paul is the sun in _his_ universe. Carrie can spin in any time she wants, but she _can’t_ have his sun burned out.

Art clears his throat and looks down at the bundle of script on his lap. Paul had sent it to him before he went to see Carrie. A script for a movie that, in Art’s opinion, speaks loudly of Paul’s personal life. This had been a subject of dispute for the last 15 minutes. Finally, Art sighs and says, “Well, what did Peggy think? You sent it to her too, right?”

“Yeah. She said the same thing that you did.”

Smile tugs on Art’s lips. “Well, Paul,” he starts, failing to smother a sense of triumph in his voice, “seems like the league has spoken.”

Paul snorts on the phone, but Art knows that he’s in a better mood now. “Whatever. I’m not taking votes.” Art laughs. Classic Paul. He does what he wants to do, in the end. “Anyway, how are you? You’re about to finish with the shoot?”

His head nods a reply before he realised they’re separated by thousands of miles. Art is currently sitting alone in a balcony in the middle of a great city of Vienna, waiting for the evening to wind down. Paul, 9 hours behind, had just woken up.

“Yeah, I’ll be back in less than a week. We’re wrapping things up here. How long will you stay in Los Angeles?” Paul gives an answer. Art nods at nothing, then smiles. “I’ll see you when I’m back?”

“I guess. You bringing anything? Wieners?”

“Um, mine?” He cracks up at Paul’s groan of irritation. Paul soon joins his laughter and Art can't help but missing him sorely. He'd been busy with the new movie project and Paul, too, had been preoccupied with his own issues. But this—talking to each other like this, so casually, so affectionately—reminds him of how absent they'd been from each other's lives. It's aching, but it's sweet. Somehow, Art wants to have this pain—because it comes from Paul, for Paul, shared with Paul, a reminder that they belong to and long for each other. Art tilts his head against the window, gazing at the blue Viennese summer night sky, and sighs dreamily. “It’s really nice out here. I wish you were with me.”

“That would be nice.” Paul’s voice lowers and his pace slows down, like when they find themselves in the darkness alone with each other, having to keep their silence. It’s the sound that makes Art’s heart beats fast. “Probably we can go sometimes after this. After you’re done with your movie and I, with mine. We just tell the girls we’re out to, I don’t know, discuss a project or something. We can go to Vienna, and Venice… and Paris. You love Paris.”

“I do love Paris.” Art sighs happily. He wants that. He wants to stroll down the Seine with Paul. He wants to listen to French records in flea markets, sit in a café and read newspaper over black coffee and buttery croissant, get beaten on the head by Paul’s leftover baguette, as he did on the first time they visited the city together. They will never be able to kiss in front of the Eiffel Tower, sure, but now that they have money, they _will_ be able to rent a room that overlooks the place, then it’ll be more or less the same. “Hey, do you think we’re rich enough to rent a German castle for a night?”

Paul laughs. “I’ll look it up. Hell, I’ll even pay for the whole thing if you agree to be my butler during the stay.”

“Ooh, Paul, are we finally talking role play?”

“We—what? What? _What?_ No! Stop freaking me out!" Art snorts a laughter that grows louder. Paul, after a brief pause that seems to be filled with mild dread and heavy tension, finally lets out a dry laughter and an annoyed grunt. "Okay, shut up. Normal sex with you freaks me out enough already, alright?”

Art covers his mouth with his hand, doubling over himself; his laughter now begins to sound like he's being stifled. With great effort, Art eventually managed to cease the fit of giggling. The rest of his laughter came out of his nose before he finally returns to his composure. He grins. “Really? It freaks you out?”

“No. Maybe. Kinda. Well, yeah, but just the whole concept of it, I mean.” He laughs. Art detects a little nervousness, which he finds amusing. “You know what? Go ahead. Plan whatever you want to do to me, just... don’t talk to me about it.”

“Really? No discussion? Safe word?”

“Safe word, yeah. You pick one. In fact, you set all the rules. You, my dear Garfunkel with sunshine hair, get to tell me what to do, for once.”

Art scoffs. “First of all, you’re just saying that because you don’t want to think right now. Second, I don't know what's with the sunshine hair but I love it. And last but not least, _please_ stop calling me dear, it really bothers me.”

Paul laughs loudly. “Okay, then, what do you wanna be called?”

This one's a no-brainer. He likes the first time Paul called him that, and never really had a chance to complain that the name was dismissed way too quickly before being put into real motion. So Art pouts, even though Paul can’t see it. “I wanna be called baby.”

“God, you’re cute.” Paul giggles on the phone, taking his time before stopping. “I _told_ you, that’s too childish for you.”

“So? I _am_ younger than you.”

“By 23 days.”

“But…” Art gently bumps his head on the nearest wall he can find. He feels stupid for sulking over a petname, but somehow it just feels so natural to act like that. So he continues on. “But you _always_ call your girlfriends that.”

Paul pauses briefly, then he hums. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s true. I guess that’s true. But, hey, you’re not my _girlfriend.”_ Paul falls silent again, probably noticing Art’s mood. Art can hear a little giggling, stifled behind pursed lips. Paul lets go with a soft sigh. “Okay, _you_ try calling me that.”

“Baby Paul.”

“Nope. Nope. You make me sound like a tiny panda.”

They both burst out laughing again, Art quickly trying to diminish his voice from fear of rousing his balcony neighbours. After a while, finally Paul lets out a long sigh and, “I should go.”

Art bites his lower lip and whimpers softly. “Okay.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’ll talk to you later?” Art makes another whimpering sound, this time to agree. Paul smiles at his phone, somehow believing that Art can see it through the distance. If he can envelop a long kiss for the boy and send it all the way to Vienna, he would. Paul exhales slowly. “If I bring leather cuffs and a whip the next time we see each other, it’s all on you.”

Art laughs now. He stands up and inhales the crisp early evening air, smiling widely. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later. I love you.”

“I love you,” then, he adds with a giggle, “baby.”

***

_Why don’t you wanna marry me?_

Art is going through a really rough patch now. He can’t find any other excuse to not marry Laurie, and she’s not backing down. For him, the pain of his first marriage is a reason enough. Sure, he probably did that for the wrong reason, but the effect still stands. He remembers losing his singing partner, his best friend and the love of his life the day _he_ got married, _then_ Art himself sealed that separation by getting married, too. And where did that leave him? Three years of painful nonsense, sharing a life, every day, with a woman he didn’t love. Marriage has been a symbol of loss now in his conviction; it's traumatised him more than he lets on. Sure, the situation is different: he _loves_ Laurie. But he’s not ready to push down that fear, and he can’t say for sure that he will _ever_ be ready. He doesn’t want to promise Laurie anything. He loves her too much for cheap deceptions like that.

But truth can be undesirable sometimes. Art understands Laurie’s frustrations, and at times, he did consider marrying her just to keep her from feeling bad about it. But he’s an idealist; he doesn’t want to get married _just because._ It’s not fair for him and it’s not fair for Laurie. He knows that getting into relationship without being ready will wind up hurting both parties in the affair. “Being ready” sounds cliché, sure, but it’s true. And he believes that what he feels for Laurie is too big to be taken lightly.

“Is there someone else?” Laurie’s voice on the phone sounds shaky. “Is there someone else in there with you? Did you meet someone? Is that it?”

“No, Laurie.” Art squeezes his eyes. He buries his face in his hand, pinching the bridge of his nose a little. How did it go from a happy phone call with Paul to _this_? He sighs heavily, trying to find patience and a way to sound it convincingly. “There’s no one else here. You can come here if you want. I’ll be happy to have you here.”

“I don’t want to.” Her words came out breathy, it makes Art wanna cry a little. Laurie is so sad and he doesn’t know what to do. If it doesn’t hurt _so much,_ he would’ve married her in a heartbeat. But it does. It’s so painful that Art can’t even move when the thought of it occurs.

"Listen, Laurie," Art begins, slowly, "I love you. I do. And I know you know that. I love you, and I want to be with you. But we've had this conversation, baby. So many times. Why can't we just be together like this? Why is it impossible? Please..."

“Is it Paul?”

Art froze, or he died, he’s not sure. But his eyes only see black and he knows he’s not breathing. “What?” Is that his voice? It doesn’t sound like him. It’s not him. It’s the voice of 15-year-old Artie, kissing Paul for the first time on the bathroom floor and being rejected. Stupid Artie. Scared Artie. Artie who just wanted for the world to end.

He can hear a little sob in his ear, coming from a place so far away, which then gets louder, as if someone toyed with the volume setting because he deserves to be tortured. Art thinks he repeats the question, or maybe it’s just in his head.

“I read your letter, I’m sorry.”

Art is dead and Laurie is far away, but he can see the tears coming out of her eyes, now flooding his hotel room floor, swallowing his ankles. Which letter? He kept everything Paul’s ever written to him since they were 11. Yellowing paper, Paul’s slanted lines—downwards, Paul is always the self-deprecating one. There’s only so little that can be called hard evidence. Paul had missed him and had said so in his letters from time to time, but no, nothing.

Except for the letter he sent on the day that they met in London.

Art’s head spins. The taste of that lukewarm beer, the disgusting pub, the cheap hotel room; they're returning to him. The memory resurfaces and he can see it with intimidating clarity now. Art had gone to London out of whim. He missed Paul so much, he felt like he was going insane. He was probably as surprised as Paul was to find himself walking the streets of London. He recalls how, the minute he stepped out of the airport, the first time he did was sticking the letter he’d composed on the plane through the slit of the red pillar box. _Hey, Paul, so I’m currently on the plane heading to London…_ The letter arrived, apparently, 2 days later, even though the Royal Mail _vowed_ for the next day delivery.

Little did he know, on the day of its arrival, Paul had also posted a letter. He made the longest correspondence ever written for Artie on pieces of papers he fetched from the last London pub he had a gig in. But a few hours later, he came home to find Art’s letter waiting for him, urgent and priority mail and everything, fooling Kathy, it seemed, into believing that it’s something completely urgent. Paul had laughed at the waste of stamp, but Art was amused and said how now he had something to return to.

A couple of weeks later, still fuming from the meeting that went awry, Art found, tossed to his bed by one of his housemates, the dirtiest piece of literature in which Paul narrated, so eloquently, what he wanted to do with his hands and what he wanted Art to do with _his_ hands, and a list of every possible thing to be done with mouth and teeth and tongue, and, really, every thinkable perverted thing to do with every single organ they have. Art hid under the blanket for three hours the first time he read it, completely traumatised. When the night fell and he found out that his roommate was staying out, he jacked off to the letter.

“Laurie.”

His call was replied with a hysterical howling. The sound stabs him in the heart, immobilised him. Art drops the phone, the sound of it hitting the floor rings loud in his ears, then he cries.


	11. What Evening Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art returns to a harrowing surprise. [TW: suicide]

> _Artie,_
> 
> _I had a dream I saw fireworks in your apartment. I first saw it from outside, then I was in. The flares were all lit. Your apartment looked orange from the light. It looked like my old apartment, do you remember that? The first apartment I bought, with the hideous orange wallpapers with roses on it?_
> 
> _Laurie was there, in the middle of the room. She was holding a lighter. It was_ my _lighter. The silver one._

* * *

Carrie stirs in her sleep. Paul exhales slowly. It was a crazy night and they had a crazy sex. Suppose Carrie is having an affair; what, then? Does he confront her? That doesn’t seem to be the way it works. Maybe he’ll just let it die down. Carrie is impulsive. She does what she wants, but the burst will end as soon as it starts.

It’s funny. He never sees himself as the patient one in anything. Artie said that he’s like a bunny rabbit, never stopping, always restless. How did he find this temper in relationship? He doesn’t know. Probably because he thought there’s nothing he can do to accelerate progress when it comes to human hearts.

Artie hasn’t been returning his calls for sometimes now. Probably he’s busy. Paul is kinda super busy too, so perhaps the lack of distraction is good. They’re going to see each other in a couple of days. It’s gonna be nice.

He misses Artie, though. Since their last breakdown with Lorne, their relationship has been very… serene. They talk more, they don’t get mad at each other and they don’t cry. It’s like passing through the first stage of relationship where everything is about grand gestures and sex. They’re now... co-existing. This would be where they begin to consider living together, or something. Living together with Artie would be fun. Maybe. The boy has expensive taste, they’ll find difficulty finding a place they _both_ like. Maybe Paul would just sit that one out.

Wow, look at that. He’s planning a life together with Artie now. Like, domestically. This seems like growth.

It’s confusing, this matter with Artie. He knows that both of them are confused about it. They can love someone deeply, but their feelings for one another always persist. It’s like two different boxes: one for their lover, one for one another. Perhaps the reason why their relationship’s mellowed is because they understand that now and they can accept that; perhaps the reason why their relationship with their female partners continuously deteriorate is because they know that _they_ would never understand and accept that.

Artie. If Paul has to choose between all the girls in the world and Artie, he would definitely choose Artie. Well, officially, he would choose one girl because that’s gonna go down in his record; but behind the scene, Artie, definitely. Maybe one day there’ll come a time when they don’t have to only be together behind locked doors anymore. When people come and ask if he’s seeing someone, and he can say out loud that he’s seeing Artie. Wouldn’t that be wild.

He said he’s like the moon, Artie. Paul is the sun, Artie is the moon. Paul burns and fuels himself, gets worked up and never shuts down; Artie reflects the light from him, calmly, charmingly. That sounds quite spot-on, probably. And probably the reason why Art always receives more admiration is because Paul, like the sun, is ever-present, always around, thus taken for granted. But Art comes when one has time to stop and ponder upon him. He comes when imagination is at its peak, and therefore the image of him is easily basked in mysticism; he becomes spiritual, dream-like. The moon and the sun. He’s adored. Paul’s needed.

Ain’t that sweet; Artie the moon with unbearable hair that reflects the sun. That makes a lot of sense now. Behind the beautiful façade is the dark crates he wants to hide. Paul’s walked that rocky surface; he’s the only person in the world who’d touched it because there’s only two of them up there in the sky; the rest of the human race just lives below, watching them so they can’t touch. How overwhelming it is to be so mighty and so restrained.

 _Did you know that people said that full moon calls for blood?_ Paul said that to Artie, the day they exchanged these thoughts about the moon. He had just heard that himself. His nurse cousin told him that. It’s because, for some reason, when full moon arises, things easily go wrong in the hospital; surgeries gone bad, lethal labours… People are being extra careful in the hospital when it’s full moon.

Paul shuts his eyes and orange tint fills the darkness behind his eyelids. The dream he had the night before came back to him, all fiery and orangey. What’s that about, the fireworks in Artie’s apartment? Artie is not a fan of fireworks. He can tolerate it alright, but he doesn’t like loud noises like that. When he was a child, he’s scared of thunders. He said he didn’t, but Jules said he did. Even now, Artie would look upwards when lightning strikes, warning the coming of rumbling thunder.

Full moon will rise tonight.

He can hear Carrie moaning softly and she lets out a heavy breathing, waking up. She tilts her head to find Paul’s face and smiles. “Hey, baby,” is the way she greets Paul in the morning. Paul can’t help but comparing his morning exchanges with Artie. They call each other by name, time and time again, because no one else’s name is in their heads. Artie is the first name he knew, the last he will remember. He will repeat that name every morning until he dies.

Still, Carrie is Carrie and it’s not fair to demand of her what Artie can give to Paul. (But limitless love, doesn’t he deserve that? Doesn’t everyone? Or perhaps this all happens because he doesn’t.) Her smile always looks like it’s about to burst into an infectious laughter, it’s so easy to be happy to see it. So Paul smiles back and brushes his thumb across her chin. “Hey.”

She looks at him with her wide eyes. They look like chocolate moons. Carrie brings herself up to kiss Paul. Her kisses are brief, but sticky. It leaves mark long after it’s gone. She strokes Paul’s chest with her tiny, slim fingers. “What are you thinking about?”

“The moon,” he says, absently. Then a little smile tugs at the corner of his lips. “And Artie.”

Carrie makes a humming laughter, mocking. “Is it, ‘God, I hope I can kick Garfunkel’s butt and send him all the way up to the moon’?”

Paul laughs. “Hah, I wish. No, I was just thinking… Tonight’s the full moon, and the June full moon is called the Thunder Moon. Yeah, I got that from an almanac from somewhere in, uh, Maine.”

Carrie nods and puts her head back on Paul’s chest. “Uh-huh. And, what does that have to do with Artie?”

“Artie’s afraid of thunder.”

Carrie laughs.

Paul smiles and lazily strokes Carrie’s shoulder as she huddles closer onto him. His eyes wander across the ceiling, studying nothing. When they became friends, Artie’s no longer afraid of thunder; or if he still did, he’s way too old already to exhibit that. But he thinks about little Artie, cowering under the blanket and sobbing when the rain got too strong and thunders licked the sky. He should’ve said hi to that frizzy little boy much sooner. He would’ve been able to be there, under the blanket, with him. He would hold his hand and hug his neck, and he would make up songs about the moon to calm him down.

“Carrie,” Paul didn’t realise he was about to speak before it happened, “do you know why Artie and I can harmonise so finely like that?”

Carrie looks up again, visibly disinterested. “Because of all the obsessive practices you did when you were kids?”

Paul shakes his head softly. “Because I can hear Artie.”

Paul looks ahead, his eyes still fixed on the ceilings but what he sees is blurred. Carrie is no longer there; he's left her on the bed with his body. But Paul—Paul’s far away now; led by the sound only he can hear, he travels through the skyscrapers and American rivers, past the ocean and through the cold mountains poking the European summer sky. Paul blinks; he’s not returning.

Artie is crying.

***

Art dreads coming home. He hasn’t spoken to anyone in the last few days, except for work. Good job today, Art. See you tomorrow, Art. Can you believe we’re going back tomorrow, Art? Are you doing okay, Art? You look kinda bluish, Art.

His phone had rung several times since he last dropped it. Who knows if it’s Paul or Laurie? Probably Paul, because why would Laurie wanna talk to him anymore, ever again? And now that he thinks about it, will Laurie be there, in his apartment, when he returns? What if she’s already packed up and left, and he’ll come home to an empty room?

What if Laurie told someone about this?

God, Art didn’t even think about that before. Would Laurie do that? She might. Why wouldn’t she? He’d broken her heart, she owes him nothing.

 _Tom, get your plane right on time._ He missed his flight once, Paul. _Once._ It’s not a song material. But when the taxi takes him to the airport and his heart feels like it’s stuffed with coals, he feels like missing his flight for the second time, and on and on so he won’t ever have to face whatever’s waiting in his apartment.

He can’t sleep through the flight. He thought about writing for Paul, warning him, but maybe it needs to be said directly, more quickly. What if those phone calls from Paul were to tell him that it’s leaked anyway? No, nothing’s reached him in Vienna yet. If something came up, his colleagues _would_ ask questions.

So maybe they’re safe. Paul still needs to know, but so far, they’re safe. What should he say to Laurie? What _could_ he say to Laurie? Yeah, so, you know, I’ve been in love with my best friend Paul since he first talked to me, but don’t worry, I only realised it when I turned 15. Oh, by the way, that’s the first time we kissed. Well, _I_ kissed him, he freaked out. But, get this, _he_ kissed _me_! That was after we stopped being friends, then became friends again, you know. So, anyway, Paul didn’t say anything but we fucked, then he ran off to England, then he fell in love with Kathy but we still sneaked around and fucked once in a while. Oh, and _then_ he left Kathy. Then he said he loved me. Then he got married. Then _I_ got married. Anyway, bottom line, we just never stop loving each other and I love you but I love him too but that doesn’t mean much except that I love him more than anyone in the world but I also love you, get it?

He’s so stupid, how did he even get a master’s degree?

“Welcome back, Mr. Garfunkel!” The doorman greets him cheerfully, waving his hand from behind the front desk.

Art smiles back. He stops to adjust his bag strap and tries to hide his nerves. “Thanks. Hey, uh, have you seen Laurie?”

He nods. “Yeah! Well, no, but she had some Chinese delivered last night. Why?”

Art quickly shakes his head. “No reason. Bad connection, haven’t been able to reach her in the last couple of days. Anyway, thanks!” Art moves as fast as he can into the lift, punches the button and sighs loudly when the door closes. He tries to calm down his loudly-beating heart. He doesn’t know what to say yet, but he knows he has to face this anyway. First and foremost, he loves Laurie. He has to make sure she understands that, and all others are just accessories.

The lift stops and Art draws a deep breath before stepping out of it. He finds his way to the door of his apartment and, in front of it, he takes his time to pull out the spare key and to keep himself from peeing his pants.

The door opens with a soft creaking, and Art pokes his head through the crack. The lights are off, except for the soft golden light on top of the kitchen sink. Art drops his bag and closes the door behind him. Looking around, he finds traces of Laurie everywhere: crumpled tissue on the carpet and the kitchen counter, the Chinese take-out boxes still half-full with sweet and sour pork, Laurie’s favourite burnt orange throw, several empty bottles of wine and beer, dirty glasses in the sink, Laurie’s cardigan on the floor.

Without turning on the light, careful not to disturb in case she’s resting, Art follows Laurie’s trails like Hansel and Gretel finding their way back from the gingerbread house. That’s it. Art is making his way home.

But is he? Or is he heading towards a sugar-coated slaughter?

“Laurie?”

Art peeks into his bedroom but it’s empty. The blanket is undone; Laurie must’ve slept here. But it’s cold. It hasn’t held Laurie for a while now—as has Art, ironically. Carefully, Art walks towards the bathroom, turning the handle and finding no one there. The floor of the shower room is dry. The sink and the bath tub are dry, too. Laurie hasn’t been here. Or, if she’s here, it’s not to use any of the showering facilities. Art steps in and opens the hidden medicine cabinet behind the mirror on top of the sink. He frowns. The stock must’ve run out quickly since he’s gone.

But how?

Art slams back the mirror. It shatters when he dashed out of the bathroom, frantically searching for the woman he missed when he walked in. Where’s Laurie? Where is she?

“Laurie!”

And there she is, a flower bent by the rainfall. The orange bottles of Valium scattering on the floor, encircling her in a field of fiery marigolds.


	12. What the Moon Can't See

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night that doesn't end.

It’s only the beginning of evening when Carrie came back from the set. She’s about to go out for a dinner and a drink. Well, probably more than a drink. She might not come home tonight.

She knows what he’s doing, coming all the way here. Paul, and his stupid rental house. She would’ve hated it had it been anyone else, but somehow she can’t feel anything else but flattered. So probably she loves Paul more than she’d anticipated. Maybe she should stop messing around with this, then. But how does she do that? Very serious relationship; that doesn’t sound like her. Does that sound like Paul? Probably. Nerdy little Paul. What is he doing with her? Is it her youth, her beauty, her fame, her father? She knows that’s not true. She just wants it to be untrue. Because if Paul really does love her, she doesn’t really know what to do. What is it that’s very scary about falling in love and being well-loved in return?

Carrie stumbles on her heel. She takes off both her shoes with a grunt, limping across the kitchen counter. A small spot of red light glares at her. She grumbles, crawling to press on the replay button on the phone’s answering machine.

_“Paul, come home.”_

Carrie’s eyes widen.

She jumps when another ring comes blaring. Quickly, she picks up. The same voice sighs when the ringing stopped. “Paul!”

“This is Carrie.” The voice stops. Carrie controls her breath, shaking. “Eddie, is it true?”

Eddie takes a sharp breath. His words are wavering. “Carrie, he needs Paul.”

Her heart beats loudly in her chest.

She swallows hard. “Paul’s already on his way.”

***

Paul took the first plane he could find. A very brief meeting, a farewell, a drop-by, then a dash to the airport and last-minute ticket. It feels a little insane, flying home out of pure instinct. He left to see Carrie, to finish his project, and he left all that for a… thought? That’s insane. He’s being insane.

Crazy speculation that sounds very likely: he’s just making things up because he misses Art. But, no, it’s not like that. It’s not like they’d never been apart for years before; a few days of silence like this barely scrapes. No, it’s not him being clingy. This is very different. This is very wrong.

Jerry, get your plane right on time.

* * *

The night is ripe when he finds New York again, beaming against his eyes. The moon is high. It’s golden and perfect; very Art. Has he returned? He said his flight from Austria would bring him home by the evening. This is evening. Has he returned to his apartment yet? Is he still at the airport? Why hasn’t he picked up Paul’s calls for the last few days? Does that have anything to do with these bad feelings?

Without any baggage to claim, Paul prances quickly out of the arrival gate and finds himself a taxi. As the car slides out onto the street, he presses his temple on the window, looking up. The June moon tinges the dark evening sky with its faint light. Yellow, white, and red lights from the skyscrapers and the street lamps are blurred as he’s carried away through the motorway. Paul closes his eyes, trying to trick these haunting feelings into resorting into dreams. It persists.

 _Artie, take me to the Mardi Gras._ It looks like that night, safe for the rain and the season. Or probably, the everything. For starter, he likes that night. He likes how he could trust Artie’s bird-like sense of direction, and he could just spend his time on the passenger seat, feeling secured. The broken trinket is still with him, the little toy princeling with broken hand. God, how he’d never laid his eyes on anything uglier than that piece of shit. It’s probably stupid, or it feels like it, how he collects every single thing that Art had ever laid his hands on. But what if those tokens are the last of Artie he’ll ever have, one day? What if one day Art is gone for good, and he can only find his fingerprints from those cheap souvenirs and paper scraps?

How to live without Art? Letting go of him was like free-falling without parachute. There’s nothing waiting for him at the end of it but pain, and there’s nothing accompanying his trip but fear. How can he live without him?

“Sir.”

The taxi driver turns his head, alerting him. Paul shakes himself out of the daze. The dark-coloured glass door with golden brown frames shows the name of Art’s apartment building, golden light bathing over it; he's here; for whatever reason he's here, he's here. Paul hands over the cash to the driver, mumbles “keep the change” and lets himself out to the open street. If nothing happens, he can just laugh it all off. He can tell Art and Laurie that he's being insane. He will tell Carrie the same.

_Please let it be insanity._

He takes long strides towards the building door, and almost punched someone who pulled his arm strongly.

“Paul.”

Paul puts down his fist and glares in shock. “Eddie?” His brother, pale-faced, slightly shaking, comes into his field of vision. Paul frowns and receives the relieved hug with both happiness and fear. He clears his throat. “Eddie, what’s going on?”

That’s when he noticed the whispering crowd and the leftover police line, hanging at the crack of the building’s front door. He grasps on Eddie’s jacket, gulping hard. “Eddie, is Art…?”

Eddie shakes his head. Paul sighs in relief, but his heart is still restless. Eddie lets himself out of the hug to face Paul. His eyes are sad. Eddie should never look that sad. If Paul can find the person responsible for those sad eyes, he’s gonna go down there and beat the hell out of them. 

“Paul, Laurie… The hospital called us. Artie was alone and he was…” Eddie shakes his head, trying to collect enough words to make one full sentence. “He gave them the number of our old house. Mom called me because she can’t reach you. Paul, we have to go to the hospital _now._ ”

Eddie had started to pull Paul towards his car, but Paul tightens his grip on Eddie’s arms, stopping him on the track. He hisses, “What the fuck actually happened?”

Eddie’s eyes widen. Paul moves his hands to touch Eddie’s face. It’s cold as ice. Eddie exhales a shaky breath, his mouth opening to say the words he never wants to repeat:

“Paul, Laurie’s dead.”

***

“If you didn’t know what happened, why are you here?”

Paul ignores Eddie’s questions. “Why do you think he gave the hospital our phone number?” Eddie needs to drive faster. “I’ve called Jules and Jerry. I think they’re already there.” Great. Just great.

Paul feels his hands shake on his lap. His right wrist is touching his jacket’s zipper and the shaking makes it jingles softly. In spite of the loud traffic and Eddie’s frantic muttering, he can hear it making noise. Paul’s a horrible driver, people said. When he almost killed himself and Peggy in a car accident, he finally had to concur. There’s just too many sounds on the street; is he expected to ignore all that? The truth is, even when he knows that he can no longer write down those sounds for Artie to sing, he still listens to find them. Because he still hopes. But those three words are just so difficult to say, aren’t they?

Let’s. Sing. Together.

What’s gonna happen now? What can he say to Artie after all this? What does he do? What _can_ he do? Take him home and feed him? Sing him to sleep? No, it’s different from when Artie first had to face the bullies on the street; it’s far from that. It’s… He doesn’t even know how it can be compared to anything. This is a pain that’s insurmountable, Paul can’t even begin to try to trace what it _might_ feel like.

So, that’s it, then. There’s nothing he can do.

“Let's go." Eddie gives him an ensuring smile and reaches out to squeeze Paul on the shoulder. From behind his head, Paul can see a shade of towering white building and its morbid lighting. A fountain. Black cars. They’re in the hospital already. Is he ready for this? It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t have time to get ready.

The short walk from the parking lot to the waiting room seems to be the worst trip he’d ever made. People in white and green uniform walk past him as if he’s invisible, then people with downcast eyes lift their gaze to probe what could be wrong in this guy’s life. He doesn’t know which one’s worse.

This one. This one’s worse.

He clenches his fists. There’s Artie with his back hunched, his elbows resting on his thighs and his clasped hands leaning against the tip of his nose. There isn’t a single sign of him being alive. He doesn’t move; he just stays there, cold, his eyes are still, like an eerie ocean. If he noticed Paul, he doesn’t show any sign of it and Paul’s not asking for him to.

He feels Eddie patting him on the arm, then he hears him whispers something that gets the whole Garfunkel family out of the waiting room. Good old Eddie; blessed Eddie. From the corner of his eye, he can sense Mrs. Garfunkel wiping her face and waves a little to Paul while Mr. Garfunkel and Jerry put their arms around her, carrying her away. Eddie puts his hands in his pockets, nods at Paul, and walks away with Jules.

Paul is left alone with Art now. But he can’t come up with anything to salvage the night. _Paul, you can’t fix this._ Maybe that’s true. Maybe Paul can’t expect himself to be able to fix _everything._

Laurie killed herself. There’s nothing he can do to fix that.

“Artie,” he tries, hesitates, then backs down. He doesn’t need reply. He doesn’t need anything from Artie. He can’t. He can’t demand Artie to comfort him with a reply; not now. Paul takes a seat next to Art. All the aches from the long flights finally catch up to him. He lets them be. He needs to know a fraction of what Art is feeling right now.

So he just sits there, on the least comfortable chair ever made, not moving while the night winds down.

***

Several hours later, Laurie’s father came. He cried, he talked to the staffs to get to his daughter, and Jerry and Eddie took care of the talking part, since Art was still paralysed. Jules took his parents back to their home, patting Paul on the shoulder and asked him to take care of the still-quiet Art.

Paul looks to his side, at Art who hasn’t changed position for hours. He feels like he’s supposed to be sad, but he can’t feel anything. The inside of his head is empty. Is it how it’s like to be dead—empty, devoid, dark? Or is it how it’s like to be alive—hurt beyond senses?

“I have something to tell you.”

Paul straightens his back, roused by the sound of Art’s voice. He almost put his hand to pat Art on the back, but decided against it. Art’s voice sounded hard and raspy; he hasn’t spoken in a while. But still, it’s beautiful. Even with his face so haunted, Art still looks like an angel and everything that comes out of his mouth is a chorus.

Art had lifted his face away from his hands now, so Paul can see everything. His eyes are bloodshot, but not puffed; he hasn’t cried. His lips are chapped and he’s breathing out of it, as if his lungs and nose had forgotten their functions. His face is pale, ghostly. He’d never met this Artie before. What can he do for this Artie? What can _anyone_ do?

“Laurie…” Art finally turns his head. He looks at Paul and his eyes widen. Paul grabs his fingers, holding it tight, overwhelmed by irrational fear that Art might just vanish if he lets go. In his hands, Art is shaking from the cold that comes out of his own body. The tips of his fingers are white; it’s as if his heart no longer supplies him with blood. Paul’s afraid now. He’s so afraid that he might lose Art tonight.

“Artie.” His voice turns down lower, melodic, it almost becomes a song. He clenches Art’s fingers in his fist, forcing the warmth from his body to possess the man. He has to live. He has to live, somehow. “Artie, let’s get you home.”

“I can’t come home,” he replies, dryly. Paul feels a stabbing feeling in his stomach. Art can’t come home. He can’t even come home anymore. Laurie had taken all his love with her, along with a place he can call home. Part of his soul is away, following her footsteps to the threshold of the afterlife, stuck before the door he can’t pass while Laurie had waltzed through it. He’s nowhere now.

“We’ll go to my place, then.”

Art shakes his head. “Paul, I can’t see… I can’t see any place I’d been with her before. I can’t…” He inhales deeply, the air wavers when he draws them in, refusing to live inside a man who’s been knocking on the door of death.

Paul nods. “We’ll go to my place, then.”

Art lifts his face, frowning. “Paul…”

“I know.” He nods again. He loosens his grip on Art’s fingers, then lifts it gently in persuasion. “Let’s come home.”

***

The Simons household is dark, safe for the golden light on the front porch. Paul tiptoes to find a spare key on the hanging pot. Art, even in the deepest pit of grief, still smiles a little at that. He reaches in to easily find the silver key under the small foliage and hands it to Paul. Paul smirks. “Well, don’t be so smug about it.”

Art drops his head with a wider smile and follows Paul into the house. In the darkness, Art stumbles on the rug. Paul quickly catches his arm before he fell, then guides him through his childhood home with ease. Paul stops at the juncture, looking up at Art.

“I’ll make you some tea.”

“Okay.”

“And I’ll get you some food.”

“Okay.”

“Do you wanna use the bathroom?”

Art shrugs, then nods. Before Paul can say anything else, he finds his way up the stairs, leaving Paul standing in the corridor. He doesn’t know what to feel, or what to do. He can’t think. He can’t think about anything. He just moves.

It’s like in a trance. When some conscience returned to him, he finds himself standing in front of the bathroom sink with his face wet and cold. He looks at himself through the bathroom mirror. His eyes blue and dead. His lips dry. He stares into his own face and can’t recognise himself.

Tears begin to roll down his cheeks. Art closes his eyes and lets out a sob. His body feels like it’s failing as he drops onto the bathroom floor, his hand still clings on the sink, desperate to keep him afloat. But his body rebels. He just wants it to end.

But after the first drop, his tears stopped. He collapsed into himself, shuddering from dry sobs until he runs out of breath. After a while, he lowers his hands, feeling it trembling on the floor, and pushes his body up. He limps towards the door, his whole body shaking, leaning on the walls for support.

He finds Paul sitting with folded legs on the floor beside the bathroom door. He looks up at Art when he walks out but says nothing. Art stares at him with blank eyes, memories resurfacing in his mind. The memories from the night that he walked for miles to find Paul in his bedroom, crying in another June evening. The people they lost in the summer. The things they found.

Paul rises up to his feet and takes Art’s hand, leading him to his bedroom. He takes off Art’s shoes and tucks him into the bed. It somehow feels like the right thing to do. Or probably the only thing there is to do. Paul puts a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on the nightstand, then kneels on the floor next to him. Art stares at the rising white smoke from the rim of the cup. Is this how it feels like to be Paul that night? Just numb. Nothing feels right. Nothing feels.

“Artie, try to sleep,” Paul says. He brushes Art’s cheek with his thumb, then pulls back, unsure. It doesn’t feel right to touch him like that. Not when he just lost his girlfriend like that. He pulls away and curls his fingers into fist, looking down. “I’ll leave in a moment. I’ll just sleep in Eddie’s room. Don’t lock the door.”

Art snatches Paul’s hand and grips on it, hard.

“Paul, she found out about us.”

He can feel Paul’s gaze burning from the side of the bed, but he doesn’t wanna reply the stare. His body goes stiff; it's like falling into catatonic state. His eyes grow wider and wider, unblinking, inviting the air to lick on them, hurting them little by little.

“Art…”

“She found out about us.” Art turns his head so quickly like an owl, glaring with eyes so wide, it seems impossible to belong to a mortal man. Staring back at him is Paul, face white as sheets and his lips tremble. As if Laurie’s still around to tell on them. As if Laurie’s still there to tell the world about them.

Art wants this to end. He just wants this to end.

“Paul, say it.”

Paul shakes his head. He knows what Art wants. He’s not giving it. Not this one.

“Paul, say it,” he insists harder, his grip around Paul’s fingers gets tighter, unforgiving, threatening. But Paul doesn’t give in and, for a while, they’re simply staring each other down until Art, finally, lets go of the fingers and sighs, energy leaving his body so quickly, it’s almost as if it’s never there at all. “Paul, please,” he whispers. His voice is brimming with despair so stark, it’s deafening. “I need to hear it. You don’t understand. I have to cry. I have to cry for her, and I can’t…”

But Paul does understand. So, for a while, Paul just stares at him, lips pursed, feeling Art’s hand around his fingers shaking violently like his mother’s old blender. He’d told her to just use the new one he’d bought her, she’d been refusing for the last 10 years. He’d been refusing to change Art, too, for the last 30 years. Now he's breaking. He's breaking because of Paul.

“It’s our fault.”

Art shakes his head sulkily, like a child under duress. “That’s not what I want.”

“That’s what you’re gonna get,” Paul replies sternly. He shakes his hand off the grip and takes it to pull Art’s face to him. Art squirms in protest, but Paul’s being forceful. He holds Art’s head in place and looks at him sharply. “If you want to feel hurt, I’ll make it hurt. But you’re not hurting alone. Not tonight, not ever.

“So, if you wanna hear it, then, fine. It’s your fault. It’s your fault that she died. But it’s my fault that you love me. It’s my fault that I chased after you. It’s my fault that I talked to you. It’s my fault that every time you pulled away, I dragged you back. It’s my fault that you’re here. If it wasn’t for me, you would never have been here. So it’s my fault that she met you, and it’s my fault that you’re both hurt. It’s my fault that it hurts so bad. It’s my fault, so hurt me back.” Paul presses harder on Art’s face. “Hurt me back.”

Art tries to shake his head, but it’s kept still between Paul’s hands. “I don’t wanna hurt you,” he says, weakly. The corner of Paul’s right eye twitches, as if he’s disgusted by what he just heard. His breathing levels with obvious effort, but the grip on Art’s face loosens slightly. He sighs.

“Just do it.”

Art recoils. “No.”

“HURT ME BACK!”

“NO!”

And Art breaks down. He feels all air being punched out of his lungs just as the refusal escaped his mouth, then all gates barring his tears crumbled. He looks at Paul, then suddenly his face was gone in a blur. Art can hear himself screaming. He can feel his face wetting. _No shrieking, okay? I’m looking at you, Art._ I’m sorry, Mr. Simon. _I don’t like you._ Paul, maybe you should listen to him, Paul. But Paul doesn’t listen to his father. He pulls Art closer to his ear and listens to his screaming instead. “It’s our fault! It’s our fault!” Why would he listen to that? “I’m sorry! It’s our fault!” Why would he prefer listening to that? Art muffles his mouth with Paul’s jacket and screams louder. “Laurie, I’m sorry!”

Paul mumbles onto Art’s head. “I’m sorry.”

Art chokes again. “It’s our fault,” he says, his voice lowers down now. Then he screams again, into Paul, into the night. If both the elderly Simons downstairs heard that, no one comes up to stop him. And he can’t stop. He just can’t stop.

***

When the night fades, Art’s screaming has been reduced to little sobs. He lies sideways, staring through the window. The first streak of morning is streaming past the panes, breaching the grey curtains, sneaking to take a peek at what’s left of last night’s despair. Tears are still streaming down Art’s face, slowly, like a leaving rain. Paul is lying next to him, enveloping him in his arms, having neither a wink of sleep nor a single sob. He just stays still, waiting. For what, Art doesn’t know.

“Paul,” his voice cracks. Art shudders at the sound of his own voice. He feels Paul stirring and draws him closer. Art swallows hard, wincing at the flooding sun, feeling the rolling tears burning his face like acid. "Paul, it hurts so much."

Paul nuzzles Art's neck, breathing him in. He smells like salt, like flight, like fright. Art savours the taste of Paul's breath on his skin, hot and soft, whistling and gentle like caressing sea wind. Laurie will never caress him with her breath anymore.

“Paul, I can’t see the light.”

He can hear Paul murmurs. “Is the darkness really bad?”

Art blinks slowly. The sunrise is golden like Laurie’s hair, the sky is blue like Laurie’s eyes. Now her eyes are closed forever, her hair buried beneath the earth. And all there is, is darkness.

Is it really that bad?

The morning is pitch-black and behind him, Paul is drifting to sleep. It’s raining in his dream, and the evening is still thick. The marigolds are growing quickly on top of Laurie’s grave. Thousands of people are watching them grow. Someone’s speaking at no one about the flowers, in words so beautiful that falls on deaf ears. They turn their heads down and pray, and Laurie’s grave opens to reveal a rusting stairway. Everyone leaves, and everyone sits there, on the benches in the station beneath the earth. Artie stands in the middle of the railway and from the ceilings, sheets of papers rain down, scribbled with songs never given to him. Paul runs to write them all down on the walls, as fast as he can—why, for reasons only the dream knows. But before he’s done, a bright yellow light cuts through the darkness of the tunnels. Art turns his head towards the light.

He can’t see the light.

When Paul wakes up, Art has gone.


	13. What Makes the Sun Goes 'Round (Epilogue)

People run on Saturdays.

The pavements are cracked and some weeds are growing out of it. _Sandy, look at the grass._ Things he used to think about. Texture of grass, their growth. How useless. How pompous. The grass, the flowers, they’re trampled by running shoes. What’s the use of it?

It’s cold. Even in the summer, early mornings are cold. He turns up his collar. His house is just straight ahead, past the house with the sleeping sprinkler, another with a red door and black picket fences, then the brick-walled one. But this is his little town. He knows the secret paths and passages, the narrow streets and all the dinky alleys; and he doesn’t want to bask in the glory of morning. There should be no wonders or miracles in today. So he brings himself to the darkness.

The narrow footway behind a basketball field is a secret treasure from one summer in his youth. Sandwiched between dirty green makeshift changing room and a run-down overgrown building, the stony path looks like it comes straight out of horror movie set. Even in the brightest morning, it’s covered in the darkness.

Is it that bad?

At the end of the footway, the faintest breach of light stabs his eyes like a knife. He welcomes it. He welcomes everything. He is nothing now but a part of the silence, floating in the air like unwanted debris, unnoticed, unseen. He is in the darkness.

Is it that bad?

He can hear early morning cyclers ringing their bells, waving their hands, greeting the morning, graced by its coming. They are blessed. His dejection is out of place. So his feet take him further; further and away. He takes his leave like a bullet from a barrel, like a raindrop from the cloud; with nothing to stop him. He closes his eyes so he can only see the darkness.

_Is the darkness really bad?_

In the darkness, silence is all he can see, and in his anguish, he becomes one with them. But even as a silence, the voice of the darkness listens and soon they harmonise. They noiselessly scream in synchrony, quietly cry in euphony; in their muted way, they become sounds.

Tears come again to burn the back of his eyes, but his lips are turned into an arch now. The darkness is protecting the silence of the world until his ears are ready to hear the rousing of men, guarding the night until he’s ready to begin the day. Is it that bad? This is the only place never to say goodbye; darkness is a place where we’re all welcomed. It’s a place of deep-breaths and calmness. It’s a place where hellos begin and kisses meet. It’s a place for dreams to live and memories to brim. It’s where his old friend stays, cradling him away from loneliness, so loving and so gentle. He’s loved in the darkness.

Art moves forward, letting his feet lead the way. People run on the streets on Saturdays and they all run from bad news, but Art walks with it. He trots the familiar paths, the familiar cracks, the familiar grass, until they become alien. He looks at the sky and knows that he’s the only person in the world for whom the sun is keeping its slumber. The whole world is blanketed in artificial lights; how the sun is fooling them and he’s the only one who knows. The real world is covered in the darkness.

And it’s really not that bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I might... write one last part for this series. But because this makes me sad, I'm gonna take a few days break ;__; Might come up with something fun instead? What comic do you want? ;__; (Chicken?) ;__;


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